Sibling Rivalry
by bballgirl32
Summary: The rich, spoiled, daughter of a victor, raised to believe that the Hunger Games are fair punishment, can't make herself care when her brother decides to volunteer. She's a little more worried when she gets tossed into the Games with him.
1. Chapter 1

I relax under my mom's gentle fingers and the light tug of the straightener as it smooths out my auburn curls. I can hear my brother's music blaring in the background, the clang of heavy weights from the other half of the house, and I know that he's squeezing in one last workout before he volunteers.

Above that noise, my mother's syrupy-sweet voice quizzes me on every possible thing she can think of.

"When your brother is picked, you are going to-?"

"I'm going to smile politely and clap, but try to make myself cry as well. Like I am worried, but proud," I say monotonously, having gone over this at _least _a hundred times.

"And how are you going to conduct yourself during the ceremonies?" she asks.

"Stand straight, respectfully blank face, hands folded in front of me."

This goes on as she continues to work on me, her light hands finishing my hair and starting on my makeup. After she won her Games, her talent was cosmetics. I avoid makeup at absolutely any cost, and prefer to keep my hair tied back, but on Reaping day, I know better than to utter so much as a syllable of complaint. My mother sees appearances as _everything_, and even though sometimes I doubt she has any feelings at all, I know that showing up looking anything less than perfect would be seen as a direct insult to her.

"If you have a feeling that the cameras are on you, what are you going to do?"

"How are you going to walk?"

"After the ceremonies, where are you going to go?"

I know that it probably doesn't make sense to you, that _these_ are the questions I'm asked on Reaping day, but I'm not even offended that this isn't a sentimental moment, or that my family isn't all huddled together like some of them, praying that the names of their loved ones are not drawn. I do not think that I'm going to the Hunger Games, and neither does anyone else. I haven't been to training a day of my life, and I've never worked in the filthy quarries or even reported to the peacekeeper academy like most wealthy teenagers from District Two. Instead, I'm going through extensive training to take over as District Two's head of military intelligence the moment I turn eighteen.

President Snow understands how important that position is because over half of the Capitol's military forces come from District Two. He won't let the only person they have trained for it get chosen. That, I am sure of.

"When we are addressing your brother before he leaves, are you going to cry?"

"No," I say, turning away and rolling my eyes. "Because it'll ruin my makeup."

It's not like I'd cry anyway. Dylan and I are not what you'd call close. We have different goals and ambitions, different lives entirely. Where I've been spending days at a time up in the command center- the mountain overlooking the city square- Dylan works days on end at the Academy, lifting and working and training to follow in our mother's footsteps. We hardly ever speak, we hardly ever see each other. His goal in life is to win the Hunger Games. Mine is to keep the Capitol safe.

All that the Games are going to do is take him out of my life again, perhaps forever. And in all honesty, I really don'tcare. The Hunger Games are just part of what life is in Panem, and if he's going to volunteer to fight to his death, I'm not going to stop him. It's our fault that the Games exist, and doing anything other than bowing our heads and watching is ungrateful. The Capitol has spared the districts. Things could be so much worse. But they aren't, and I think that the Hunger Games are a fair way to compensate for our mistakes.

"If you do get picked?" my mother asks, her voice clearly implying that she thinks it's impossible.

"Look up and see if pigs are flying?" I snort.

"Alessia," she says, but I can see her trying not to smile. "Take this seriously."

"Walk up to the stage and act like Caddie Skye."

Caddie Skye is District Two's escort. Even my mom doesn't bother trying to find something nice to say about her, and my mom can bullshit her way through life better than anyone. Caddie is ditzy, arrogant, and way past stupid. I suppose that since her hair, eyes, nails, and lips are all fake, it's safe to say that her brain is probably made of plastic or silicon, too.

My mother, in the five seconds that she's actually considered me going to the Games, has come up with the strategy that I act like _my _brain is made of silicon. She knows that people wouldn't buy her daughter acting like a weakling, but a rich girl with private tutors and influential parents acting like she has a chance to win it all, well, it's not that hard to picture.

"Very good." She takes a step back and smiles at me. "I cannot believe how beautiful you are."

I try not to make a face, because she's wrong. I'm not like her, and I don't think she sees that. I'm not curvy and statuesque like she is. I don't have her beautiful face, or her mesmerizing blue eyes or golden hair. No one other than my mother would call me anything more than 'a little pretty'.

"Don't look at me like that," she says, seeing the skeptical look on my face. "Low self-esteem is not becoming."

She says stuff like that a lot. About half of the things that I do are not becoming. Slouching. Not paying attention. Reading too much. Biting my lip when I'm nervous. Cracking my knuckles. Using sarcasm. Making strange observations, mainly about other people, out loud. It's all 'not becoming'.

"Sorry. I am beautiful. I know that."

"Good. Now, you wait right here, and I'll get your dress. Do not move a muscle, or it may mess up your hair."

I'm tempted to ask how I'm going to get to the reaping without moving a muscle, but I figure that she'd say being a smartass wasn't becoming either, and I'd just have to apologize again. My mouth stays firmly shut.

When she comes back, just minutes later, she's carrying a pale mint green dress with a halter top and a skirt that reaches just past my knees. It's nice, but I'd never wear it willingly, especially not with all of the sparkling gold patterns that glitter all over the thing.

"So, what do you think?" she asks, holding it up. I resist the urge to make a face.

"It's beautiful," I say. My voice sounds apathetic to me, but my mother has always had a talent for hearing what she wants. She smiles.

"Good, I thought so, too. It matches your hair, and I think that it'll even bring out your eyes."

"That's wonderful." Again, my voice isn't exactly loaded with enthusiasm, but my mother chooses to ignore it, instead literally cutting the shirt off of my back not to mess up my hair, and helping me strip down and step into the dress.

"Suck in," she commands, and she zips up the back of the thing the moment I do, more or less cutting off my air supply. I'm actually pretty willowy, but it still feels like the dress chokes me. She had to have gotten it custom tailored to strangle me to death. I want to complain, but it wouldn't do any good, so I keep my mouth shut and stand off to the side while my mother runs to fetch Dylan so we can leave.

My brother spares me a quick glance when he follows my mom out of his room, but looks straight back towards the door. He doesn't look nervous, or apprehensive, or really emotional at all. He just looks big, over a head taller than me, with his muscles straining against the jacket of his suit. His blond hair is still sweaty from his workout.

"Ready?" my mother asks.

"I always have been," Dylan says, and she doesn't wait for a comment from me. She and Dylan tear out the door, and I stumble along behind, not the most coordinated, and definitely not very good with heels.

By the time that we actually do get to the square, the Reaping is due to start in ten minutes. I head off to stand with my age group, Dylan goes to his, and my mother makes her way over to her place of honor on the main stage.

I can see Dylan through all the people, laughing and joking with his friends. He's miming chopping someone's head off.

I turn away from him in disgust, but then my eyes find my mother sitting on the stage. She's gesturing for me to stand up straighter. I pretend not to understand, and while she's struggling to communicate the message, Caddie Skye parades across the stage in front of her, looking for all the world like she has a stick up her butt. My mother admits defeat and sits back, but even I can see the glare she sends the District 2 escort.

"Finally, it's time for another wonderful year of the Hunger Games," the escort chirps into the microphone. The entire crowd goes dead silent. "I hope that all of you are as excited about this as I am."

I am excited. Every year, the Games are a chance for District Two to prove just how superior we are to the other Districts. But even better, they're another chance to raise our significance in President Snow's eyes.

Once her introductions are finished, Caddie hands the microphone to Mayor Granderson. His low, deep baritone provides a humorous contrast to Caddie's high-pitched voice. I find myself smiling as I listen to his voice, smooth as velvet. I've always liked him, and I get that impression even more as he goes on about the Dark Days and talks about the past victors. My mother smiles politely throughout his speech, looking entirely perfect.

For another ten minutes or so, he continues with his speech, then tapers off into his usual conclusion of, "District Two has always been the most powerful and feared of the districts. Now, let us bear the burden of our past mistakes and show the Capitol how truly loyal we are."

Then he steps back and gives Caddie the stage again. I can feel the mixture of anticipation and apprehension start to work its way through the air. I close my eyes, take a deep breath. I shouldn't be worrying, but I am.

"Ladies first!," Caddie trills, her voice higher than usual with excitement. She struts to one of the enormous glass balls and sticks her bright pink hand in the top. It seems like time stops for a moment as she daintily plucks the paper out of the ball.

"Alessia Griffin."

For a moment, I'm sure that I misheard. Then she repeats the name, and my mouth pops open into a neat little 'o'.

I swear that I die for a second. My heart completely stops. I think that everyone else's does to. It's like all of the air has been sucked out of District Two. There isn't a sound. No one blinks. No one breathes.

My mother is the first to react. She finds me in the crowd and locks eyes with me. Her surprise isn't showing. Nothing about her countenance shows she's concerned at all. She jerks her head forward, her smile exaggerated. A command. Get my ass on stage and do it with a grin on my face. Follow through with our plan. Act like Caddie.

I don't know why, but I really don't worry at first. My steps come easily, and even though my smile is fake, it isn't forced.

When I finally do get to my place on the stage, I can feel my mother's eyes, still burning into my back. Normally, I would be annoyed. Not that I'd say anything, but I'd care. But today, with Panem staring at me, I don't even notice. I feel so shocked, so numb, that she could probably hit me over the head with a 2x4 and I wouldn't feel it.

"Oooh, Drina Griffin's daughter," Caddie coos. "Such a wonderful treat. I bet these are going to be 'The. Best. Games. Ever.'"

The mayor meets my eyes, and I can see some regret there. I'm glad there's at least one person who doesn't think it's so wonderful.

"Okay, boys next," she chirps. Then, with a slight hesitation, she laughs. "Oh, silly me. I forgot. Would anyone like to volunteer to take Miss Griffin's place?"

For a moment, I'm relieved. I'd totally forgotten of the possibility of a volunteer. However, that relief quickly fades into sheer terror when absolutely no one steps up. _What_?

I lock eyes with numerous girls in the crowd, Careers who have _trained _for this, and then resist the urge to growl when all of them shrink away. District Two _always _has a volunteer, so where in the hell is she?

I think that's when the numbness finally starts to wear off. My smile becomes a lot harder to keep on, and I can feel my heart start pounding against my ribcage, evidently working again.

"Ooo-kay," Caddie says once it's clear that no one else is going to take my place. "Would everyone please applaud Miss Alessia Griffin, the female tribute from District Two?"

My smile has to be looking extremely fake, but I can't make myself care. Even the thundering applause of the audience is only static in my ears.

Because I'm days away from my death.

Then, somehow, things get worse. Caddie quiets the place down and steps to the boy's ball. I remember Dylan.

My stomach constricts and I flinch where I'm standing, positive that I'm going to throw up. Then my Griffin pride kicks in, and I force myself to straighten up, remind myself that smiling is important, but I'm not into it. In all reality, I think that curling up and dying right now would be better than having to stand here and act like nothing is wrong. It'd be easier, if nothing else.

All that I know is that Caddie says a name, and a boy struts to the stage. He's big enough that he could eat me for breakfast any day.

Then I see Dylan step forward, already ready to volunteer, even before she asks for names. I try to catch his eye, to silently tell him that he just _can't_ be in the Games when I'm there, because I couldn't stand it, but I can see that he's purposefully avoiding looking at me.

Now, I know that a normal girl would want their brother in there, to protect them. But the thing is, Dylan wants this. Like really, really wants it. I know for a fact that even though he may not kill me right away, he will break my neck with his bare hands if it comes down to it.

I stand there, thinking of that, wondering if he'll be the one to kill me, as Caddie asks for volunteers.

When Dylan comes up to the stage, he smirks at the other boy, who just shakes his head and walks away. As he comes by me, I can hear the big boy mutter under his breath, "Let the Capitol-lovers go. Better them than me."

I can see that Dylan heard it too, because he gets this look on his face, the one that makes him look really, really slow. It's like he heard the words, but his brain isn't processing them. I ignore the words. They're things that I've heard before. Instead, I focus on Dylan.

I don't know why I look at him. I think it's just to see him one last time before we become enemies. Instead of that, though, a list of his weaknesses runs through my head like movie credits. I visualize all of the ways that I could kill him, that I could take his life. All of my psychology training and military planning takes over, and I see that if I'm smart about it, I could _kill _my brother.

In a second of thoughtlessness, I _want _to. I want to show him and his idiot friends that reading and studying all the time is better than lifting weights until you go brain dead.

Then, after Caddie is done gushing over how 'fun, fun, fun' this will be, we're ordered to shake hands, and I push those horrible thoughts out of my head. Because Dylan is my brother, and I can't kill him. I love him, right?

Only when we step away from each other, and he sends me this terrible glare, I'm not so sure that I do.

"Good luck, Brother," I tell him, my cheesy smile the biggest it's been yet. He spits at my feet.

After that, just for a fleeting moment, all of my terror and anxiousness and fear leave me, and this crazy thought runs through my head.

_The hell with love. I'm going to poke his brains out with a stick._

Caddie, oblivious to the looks that we're sending each other, beams.

"We have to go now, but remember to keep an eye on these two tributes. I have a feeling that the 71st Hunger Games are going to be a real, real treat!"


	2. Chapter 2

Once all of the cheering has stopped, Dylan and I are ushered off towards the Justice Building. My panic has dulled slightly since the fact that I was a tribute first set in, and I think about the directions that my mother had given me previously.

As we're walked through the still crowded square, I smile. I call out random greetings in a voice as chirpy as Caddie's. I even wave like I've seen my mother do, fluttering my fingers instead of actually moving my arm.

And I don't cry. That's what I'm most proud of myself for. Not crying. Because it'd be extremely obvious with my ruined makeup and all. I don't want to be portrayed as a wimp. I want to look like someone too stupid to realize what's going on.

The Justice Building is only a hundred or so feet from the stage where the Reaping took place, so I'm in my nice little room within minutes. I know for a fact that my dad is going to visit Dylan, and my mom is going to visit me. It's always been like that. My mom thinks Dylan is stupid, my dad thinks that I'm a wimp.

Sure enough, within minutes, my mother is rushing into the room. Her face is carefully arranged into a completely blank mask, but I can see fear in her eyes.

I speak first.

"Is this good-bye, or can you come and mentor me?" I ask. I want to know if this may be the last time I ever see her, or if I can save gut-wrenching good-byes for later.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "It's not allowed. I don't know who you're going to get, but it's not going to be me."

"Oh," I mutter, disappointed. It's quiet for a minute, and I start to open my mouth to say something, but my mother speaks first.

"I don't know how this happened," she says to me quickly. "I honestly didn't think that President Snow would-"

I shake my head.

"It's all chance, Mom. It was stupid to think that he'd bend the rules for us. We are still from the Districts, after all. Our ancestors betrayed the Capitol as much as everyone else."

She sighs and sits down on the velvet couch beside me, taking my hand in hers.

"You're doing good Alessia. I was worried that you would forget how to act, but you're too strong for that."

I shake my head. I don't _feel _strong. I feel like I've been blindsided, but worse than that, I feel lost. I've always known the answers to everything. There has never been a time in my life when I haven't known what to do, but now, I'm clueless. I don't know if I should be sad or worried or if I should be thankful for the chance to represent my district. I don't know if I should try to win, or just roll over and die, because I really don't have much of a chance at all.

"What am I going to do?" I ask my mother, my voice desperate and pleading. I don't actually say what I'm feeling, but I know that she understands. The super genius, the girl with the private tutors and fancy books and obsession with psychology, doesn't have any idea what she should do.

"You're going to win, that's what you're going to do," she says, her voice a lot more gentle than I've ever heard before. I know in that second that for once, she's not saying what she thinks that other people will want to hear her say, but what she herself wants me to hear.

"How can you say that, though? I can't use a knife, or get myself food to eat, or-"

"Calm down, Alessia. All that you have to do is keep your head. You have a brain. Use it."

I take in her words, hope and pray that she's right, but I can't make myself believe her. Use my brain? That's not going to keep me from starving. It's not going to help me when a guy twice my size is cutting me apart with a knife.

"Alessia," she says. Her voice is sad enough that it cuts me apart. "Skepticism is not becoming."

She knows, then, that I hate it when she says things like that. Because I know that she's not serious now, she's trying to joke, to make me laugh. I manage a strangled smile.

"But Mom, what about Dylan? He's not going to fall for any of that, and we all know that he's going to get in with the Career pack."

She bites her lip, her eyes shining with tears.

"I don't know," she whispers, shaking her head. "I would tell you to kill him right away, but he's my son, too. I don't want either of you to die." She clears her throat. "I don't want to lose either of my babies."

Now I feel even more lost, because my mother doesn't cry, but she is. Big fat tears are welling up in her eyes, and I have to wonder if she isn't more lost than I am.

"Relax, Mom. It's going to be okay. I'm not going to kill Dylan. I'll find some other way to survive. Maybe if I pull off the act convincingly enough, they won't believe him."

"Maybe," she says, but she doesn't sound confident. She takes a deep breath, and when she speaks again, it's in her normal too sweet voice. "Now, remember, stay calm, act like Caddie. Pretend to be too stupid to even care that you're in the Games. Treat it like it's a chance for publicity. I want you acting like you think that because you're my daughter, you have this thing in the bag."

"If they ask me about Dylan….?"

She hesitates, thinks for a moment, and continues. "Act like he's not a threat. Say that he isn't as strong as he looks. And above anything, pretend not to care about anything that happens to him. Otherwise, he can be used against you."

I don't tell her that I'm not going to have to pretend not to care.

"What if that makes him mad, though, my taunting him?" She bites her lip. I think about telling her that it's not becoming, like she always does with me, but I don't think that it's the right time.

"You do know his weaknesses, Alessia. If he comes after you, defend yourself. I'm not going to tell you to sacrifice yourself for him." Her voice is hollow when she says it, and I can see how much this is killing her.

"Okay," I say softly. Then a peacekeeper comes in and starts to usher my mother out. I hurry forward and look at the man, widening my big green eyes and making them look as innocent as possible. "Please, twenty more seconds. I just need to say good-bye."

He looks at me, then grunts and takes a step back. It's clear that he knows what my father can do to him if he doesn't listen. "Thank you," I tell him quickly, then throw my arms around my mother's neck.

"I'm going to miss you," I breathe.

"I'll miss you, too, Angel." She looks me over, then forces a smile. "Now, I don't want you going in there thinking that you don't have a chance. Give this everything you have, and keep your head on your shoulders. Do you understand?"

I choke back tears and nod. "Yes."

"Good. Good luck, Alessia. I love you." She takes one more shaky breath and presses something cold into my hand. "Take this, and use it as your token. I expect it back."

Then the Peacekeeper takes her arm and drags her away.

I look down into my hand and find her old district token, a beautiful heart-shaped onyx necklace, rimmed with shimmering diamonds. Tears form in my eyes. From what I know, she has not taken it off since she won her Games, back when she was fifteen. It was her mother's.

I use the next few moments to collect myself, so that by the time another Peacekeeper arrives to take me away, my tears are gone and I'm completely composed. Another white-uniformed officer meets us in front of the door with Dylan, and the two Peacekeepers escort us to a car parked right in front of the building.

The ride to the train station is awkward, to say the least. Dylan keeps staring straight forward, his icy blue eyes, my mother's eyes, cold and emotionless. I feel like I should say something, but I can't. So I work at looking everywhere except at him.

If it was a short ride, it wouldn't be so bad, but the nearest train station is in a small military outpost about twenty miles away from the main city. Yes, there's a perfectly functioning train station in the middle of the city, but the train tracks aren't right for the high speed capitol trains, and Snow doesn't want them to build different ones; it could provide easy rebel access to the heart of his most loyal district.

I'm not sure what he's so worried about. I know that there are some people scattered across Panem who don't like Snow, but I can't imagine that enough people are ungrateful enough for the Capitol's mercy that they could ever actively rebel.

But whatever. I guess in politics, you have to be big on using the planning fallacy. One of my tutors told me about that. Apparently, when people take optimistic views of things, or even average views of things, those things go worse than expected. However, if you take the most pessimistic view of something that you possibly can, you're prepared for everything. I'm assuming that's what Snow is doing with the trains.

I can't help but being just a little bit annoyed by that at the moment, however. Because with everything else going on, I really don't appreciate the fact that I have to sit in a car for a half hour with my brother when he's going to be trying to kill me in less than a week.

"Are you always this quiet?" I ask him, trying not to fidget. Yeah, it's not exactly the time to start talking to him after sixteen years, but I want to break the silence somehow.

Dylan looks at me from under his eyelids, like tilting his head up to see me would be a waste of precious energy. Even though I don't know him well, I do know the answer to my question. No, he's not always this quiet. He's a loud, obnoxious pig around his friends. It's just around me that he's so broody.

"No. I'm not."

Another twenty minutes of silence. I start counting trees that we pass. After what feels like an eternity, the car finally slows to a stop.

"Alright, we're here. Get going," the peacekeeper driving the car says. I glance at Dylan.

"Anything to say to me, Brother?" I ask. His eyes narrow at me.

"If you don't want me killing you, I'd stay far away. Don't expect any favors from me in the arena." His voice is cold and uncaring. I wonder if he actually feels that way, or if he's putting on a mask.

I suppose that I'm not feeling much more sentimental, so I guess that he's not faking anything.

"You say that like it's going to be _me _worrying about _you._"

"You don't have a chance."

"Don't be so sure."

Then the driver more or less kicks us out of the vehicle.

The moment that the two of us step onto the train platform, we're swarmed by huge insect-like cameras. My smile turns ditzy, and I start walking like Caddie does. I wave and grin and ignore the looks of disgust I'm getting from Dylan. Even when we get on the train, I keep up the act as a Capitol attendant takes me off to a room nearly as large as my library back home.

After telling me that supper is in an hour, the man leaves me alone.

The place may look like a library, but there are definitely no books. Just a bed, a dresser, and a power board with a lot of buttons. I'm more than interested in the power board, but I don't even attempt to try to figure out how it works. I've learned to deal with people, how they tick. I'm not too big on machines, however, and I have a feeling that breaking it would be frowned upon.

With that in mind, I turn away from the board of buttons and study the rest of the room. After figuring that I have nothing else to do, I check out the dresser and am somewhat surprised to see that it's full of clothes, mostly my size. For a moment, I'm excited at the prospect of getting out of the too tight green dress, but then I remember the image that I'm supposed to be projecting.

Does acting like a ditz require dressing like I actually care? I look at the heart pendant in my hand and think of what my mother would want me to do. Of course, that's obvious. Even if I weren't putting up a front, she'd be begging me to dress decently, reminding me that people are always watching, and that we should act accordingly.

I sigh and put on a pair of black pants and a nice blue shirt. It's nicer than I'd like, but not terrible. For a moment, I'm tempted to wash my makeup off, but before I can act on that temptation, Caddie is pounding on my bedroom door.

"Come, come, Alessia. There's a beauuuutiful meal waiting!"

I stifle a groan and force myself to the door. Just before I open it, I pause a moment and rearrange my face into a cheesy smile. Then I push it open.

Caddie is waiting in all of her pink-wigged, blue-skinned glory. She was apparently waiting directly in front of the door, because when I walk out, our faces are about three inches apart. I'm sure we have to look creepy, looking at each other with our identical too-big smiles.

She doesn't even seem to care.

"Nice to see that you're so hap, hap, happy!" I take a step back into my room. It smells like she just ate a box of breath mints.

"Well, all of this is just so exciting," I coo. "I don't know how I couldn't be happy."

"That's the spirit! Now, come on, your brother is waiting."

My smile falters, just for a moment. I had forgotten about him.

Whatever. He doesn't matter. Just another tribute trying to kill me. Just another tribute that has to die for me to win. Nothing more.

On the way to the dining car, Caddie works on keeping up a nice long stream of chatter about how wonderful this is all going to be, how amazing it is that Dylan and I are in this thing together, how good we're going to look in the opening ceremonies, and how she can't wait to see us in the arena.

My head is about ready to burst when we get to the room. It gets worse when I see Dylan laughing and chortling with Brutus, one of my least favorite victors. I start to glance around to see who my mentor is, but then I notice the food and all of my worried thoughts derail into amazement.

Now, my family is one of the richest non-Capitol families in Panem. We eat very, very well. On holidays, we even hire a gourmet chef.

The food set out for us, however, is like nothing that I've ever seen. There are three different types of roasted birds, all golden brown, streaming with colorful sauces. Dainty little bowls of puddings are arranged around the table, and there are more kinds of drinks than I knew existed.

More amazing than any of that, however, are the fruits, the vegetables. In District 2, where there's little sunlight and rocky soil, we never get fresh greens. Here, though, there are lush berries, shining red apples, and brilliantly colored corns and broccolis that are nothing like the canned versions from District Two. I've never seen anything like it.

My smile suddenly becomes a lot more real.

"Help yourself to anything you'd like," Caddie says. I don't even acknowledge her, just start loading a plate with the amazing looking fruits and vegetables, adding a little of all three birds, and grabbing two different kinds of soup and a bowl of rich chocolate pudding.

Then I sit down and eat, savoring every single bite, chewing slowly and trying to commit every bit of food to memory, knowing that in a week, I'll be starving in the arena.

While I eat, I hear conversation going on around me, but I don't make any move to join in. Brutus and Dylan are talking about sword-fighting methods around full mouths. Caddie is chirping in my ear, talking about what kind of dress she thinks that I'd look best in at the opening ceremonies. I nod in appropriate places, but can't be bothered to stop eating long enough to actually speak.

After a few minutes, I do remember my mentor, but when I look around the room, there isn't anyone else in sight. I'm somewhat concerned, but I keep eating anyway, figuring that she'll come soon enough.

About ten minutes later, she does come. I'm just finishing up on my second soup, a creamy pumpkin broth, when the door opens and both Dylan and Brutus hurriedly go quiet. I glance over my shoulder, and my spoon clanks into my soup.

Lyme Dýka is walking towards the table, her back ramrod straight, her head held high. Overly confident but with a reason to be.

She scares me, she always has. I haven't actually spoken to her before, but there's this kind of power that she has about her that's always intimidated me. Even my mother avoids her at all costs. I guess those are reactions that you tend to generate when you're easily over six feet tall and look strong enough to dismantle a full-grown human being with your bare hands.

Oh, great.

"Ah, Alessia, this is Lyme, your mentor."

Lyme takes a seat beside me. I try to smile at her. She gives me a look that clearly says that she thinks I'm the dumbest person that she's ever met. Her pale gray eyes are ice cold.

"Pleased to meet you," I manage to choke out, even though my voice isn't as smooth or friendly as I want it to be.

"Hurry up and get eating. We've still got to watch a recap of the Reapings, and I want you to get some sleep before we enter the Capitol," Lyme says coolly.

I bite back the 'yes ma'am' I want to utter, instead giving her a rather scared-looking nod.

After that, I eat the rest of my food as quickly as I can, not able to savor it at all with her steely gray eyes locked on me. Once I'm completely sure that I can't eat another bite, I set my fork down.

"Are you done?" she asks. _No, I'm just trying to fool you into thinking that I am._

"Yes, perfectly finished," I tell her as sweetly as possible.

"Good. Now let's get going." Then, without a glance at Brutus or my brother, she grabs my arm and literally drags me into a different compartment, this one with an enormous television set and several overstuffed chairs.

She turns everything on as Brutus and Dylan stumble into the room in a rather unsophisticated manner, clearly not wanting to miss anything. District One's escort comes into view just as the two of them take a seat. Caddie picks her way into the room a moment later and daintily sits down in a chair next to me. Lyme takes the seat on my other side.

As I watch the Reapings progress, my brain perks up the way that it does when one of my tutors would quiz me about military strategy. I'd be given a situation and asked what to do with it. Now, instead of thinking about eliminating possible rebel uprisings, my brain analyzes each and every tribute in an effort to eliminate human beings.

The boy from One looks too big to be much of a fighter. I've never attempted to use a knife, I probably couldn't even lift a sword, but I could probably manage to kill the lumbering fool with either one. The girl, though less intimidating, is more dangerous, but there are hundreds of ways to kill people like that. I could lure her into some kind of trap, poison her, wait for her to go to sleep and take her out then.

Some of those ideas seem hopeless, but I have to keep thinking them, keep trying, for my mother. I have to hope that I'll learn enough about finding food, or using weapons, in training to get me through, and then use my brain for the rest.

I have to. Otherwise, I don't stand a chance.

Throughout the rest of the Reapings, I continue taking mental notes. The girl from Three is an easy kill, the boy from Four is probably the most dangerous looking person in the Games. The girl from nine is pretty enough to potentially steal sponsors, depending on her competence, and the boy from Twelve looks hungry enough to give into stupidity for a piece of food.

It all seems so easy. So mechanical and clean. I could kill them all without touching them.

I also know that even though killing them would be easy, making sure that I'm not killed in the process is going to be a lot harder.

"There're a lot of big tributes this year," Lyme tells me gruffly. I look at Brutus, who's watching me warily. A smile creeps over my face. Yes, who knows what Dylan will tell him, but if he isn't completely sure about me, he may tell other mentors stories about the ditzy girl from District 2.

"Lots of cute guys, too. I wonder if any of them will go out with me!"

Lyme gives me a look. I stare directly at her, peering into her eyes, trying to communicate that I'm not serious. Part of me doesn't want her in on my act, but I don't want her to give up on me before I get in the arena, and it's clear that she's the type of person who would do that if she doesn't feel that I have a chance. I can't have that happen. I need her for sponsors, need her for advice.

"We need to talk," she says sternly, but she's smiling, just a little. I know that she understands. Good.

"Why? Did I do something wrong?" I ask innocently. She snorts.

"We'll discuss this before we arrive in the Capitol tomorrow morning. For now, just… get some sleep. I need air."

With that, she walks off, and I head back to my room, anxious to talk with her and still terrified of what I'm going to go through so soon.

However, I'm also exhausted, and that wins out easily, sending me almost directly to sleep. Vibrant blue eyes haunt my dreams, and somehow I know that they aren't my mother's.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, I'm woken up by a rough pounding on my door. When I peel my eyes open, Lyme is in the process of throwing the door open and striding into my room. Once again, I immediately grow tense under her commanding presence.

"We arrive at the Capitol in an hour. You have things to explain. Get talking."

I pull myself into a sitting position and wipe the sleep out of my eyes.

"Can't I shower-" I start groggily. I'm not a morning person at all, and this is _early_. I don't even think that the sun is all the way up yet.

"You'll have time for that when I'm gone," she snaps.

"What difference does it make, now or later?" I really don't think that there is a difference, but that she just wants to establish superior footing. Not that she actually has to work to do that, but it feels like an unnecessary tactic to show me that I have to listen to her.

"It's convenient for me now."

See? That's just a horrible excuse. However, I'm not too interested in getting into an argument with this woman, so I keep my mouth shut. Besides, I don't see any potential gain that I would get from making her mad. An earlier shower isn't much compared to the only ally I'm going to get in these Games.

"Okay, that's fine with me," I say.

"I thought so," she says, like she actually scared me into my decision or something. "Now, there is something up. Are you going to tell me what it is, or not?"

"Mentors are usually really quiet, right? I mean, if I tell you a secret, you aren't going to go around telling everyone?"

She fixes me with a glare so fierce that I have to work not to flinch. For a moment I wonder if she isn't going to be the most terrifying person that I meet in these Games. I can't even keep up eye-contact with her.

"No, I am not," she finally says in a way that makes it clear she thinks I'm an idiot for wondering in the first place.

"Good. I have a secret," I announce.

"This should be good," Lyme says sarcastically, clearly not thinking that it's going to be anything really important at all.

I pause a moment, just for dramatic effect.

"I'm acting stupid."

She looks at me for a moment, then lets out one low, snort-like laugh.

"Well, you're doing a damn good job at it," she says, and I almost have to laugh too. My mother despises sarcasm so I'm not exposed to it too much, but I do find it hilarious. Just from that one comment, I decide that Lyme may not be so bad.

"I guess that reaction should tell me that you've been a mentor for a very long time and have had more than one tribute who was overconfident in what they could do, and ended up dying because of it," I say.

Now she raises an eyebrow. I take it that I'm right.

"I didn't think you were as dumb as you were letting on, but tell me, do you think that your intelligence is enough to win you these Games?" asks Lyme, serious now.

I shrug. "Probably not, but I think that it'll at least be enough to make me a contender."

Lyme considers this for a moment.

"That's good enough, but I'm not sure how I'm going to work with this. Tell me, are you good with any weapons?"

"I doubt it. I've never trained."

She doesn't even attempt to mask her surprise.

"Drina's daughter? What in the hell was she thinking?" she asks.

I hate the way that she makes my mother sound so stupid. I can't help the anger from slipping into my voice, just a little.

"We all thought that I would be safe. I've been getting trained for one of the highest ranking jobs in District 2, and my father was close to Snow," I say. "Besides that, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that I have no tesserae when there are thousands of kids in the ghettos that take as much as they can get."

"Ha. You may have used logic, but you also used trust," says Lyme. She leans forward so that she's uncomfortably close to me, and I fidget under her hard gaze. "You want a hint, Griffin? Don't trust anyone, especially not politicians. Everyone knew your brother was going to volunteer. Imagine how exciting it would be if Drina Griffin had not just one, but two children in the Games?"

I glare at her.

"You're stupid if you think that Snow would do anything like that. He is too close to my family. It was chance, nothing more. Besides, no one said my brother _had _to volunteer. If he was normal, he wouldn't have."

She pauses for a moment and gives me a look, like she can't believe me. Then she shakes her head and changes the subject.

"So I take it that your brother isn't a potential ally?"

"No. He's not," I say.

"Any of the people you saw last night who you could consider?" Lyme asks.

"I don't want an ally. It'll be-"

"Whatever qualms that you may have about it, if you do not get yourself at least one other person on your side, I am giving up on you," says Lyme lowly. "You say that you cannot use weapons, I highly doubt that you've ever gone a day without enough to eat, and I'd bet my life that you have no idea how to get food for yourself."

"But-" I start to argue. She keeps talking over me.

"Now, Miss Supergenius, I'm not saying that you have to trust them, or work with them as an equal. I'm saying that you need to manipulate one of those people into acting as your lapdog. Get someone to get food for you, to protect you, to carry out all of the genius plans that your big brain comes up with."

Okay. Now, the prospect sounds a lot more interesting. To be honest, I hadn't even considered it before. But having someone like that to do my bidding would be more than convenient. And when circumstances require it, I could poison the person's food, or kill them in their sleep. It would be perfect.

"Alright. I'm considering it. But I doubt that anyone would be dumb enough to act as a servant towards _me_-"

"You want to bet? If you listen to my advice, I have no doubts that you'll get someone, even if they may not be the best or the smartest. Just do what I say as the week progresses, and eventually, someone will bite."

"Are you sure?"

"I've been doing this for twenty years, and I've brought home six victors, more than any other mentor in the Games. I know what I'm talking about."

I smirk.

"Okay. Deal. I'll listen to you, you tell me how to get a partner."

"And Griffin?" she asks seriously.

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget to keep acting stupid. I can see your mother in that idea, and it's a good one." I have to smile at that. For some reason, I like that Lyme is making my mother sound smart, like she's someone I can look up to.

"Deal."

Then she leaves, and I'm left to get ready for our arrival at the Capitol.

By the time that I'm finished showering and have put on a long light green sweater and a pair of black leggings, Caddie is at my door, twittering about how we're in the Capitol, and saying that I just _have _to come see.

Knowing that I have to stay on her good side, especially since she can help me get sponsors, I pull on a pair of fuzzy gray boots, tie my hair back, and hurry out to see the Capitol.

The moment that I reach a window, I realize that my excitement is completely well-founded. The Capitol is like nothing I have ever imagined. Vibrantly colored buildings stretch higher into the sky than I would have thought possible. The silvery streets are packed with smiling people, none of them looking like anything I have ever seen before. Some have entire color palettes dyed into their skin, others are tattooed with designs so intricate that they must've taken days to finish. Between all of the people whir fancy cars in more vivid colors than the buildings, as interesting and unique as the people.

It doesn't even look like Panem, not the Panem that I know. It's completely foreign, as if I had taken off in one of the ancient spaceships that I've read about and flown to a different planet. The people don't look, can't be human, but something happier. Yes, maybe they don't look as intelligent, but the saying 'ignorance is bliss' comes to mind, and I have to wonder at how accurately it describes these people.

But even more so than the strange, happy people, the colors and brilliance of the entire place is incomparable to anything I could have imagined. In District Two, where everything is constantly fog-covered and clouded with dust from the quarries, something like this would be an impossible dream. The sun is shining freely, sending diamonds of light twinkling off of all of the glass windows, the gleaming cars. There are no emancipated children peeking out from alleyways, but radiant, smiling kids laughing with their families. None of the buildings are collapsing, none of the people look to be dying.

It's some kind of utopia, something that I would expect to find in a fairy tale.

"Caddie, it's beautiful," I tell her, completely honest for once. For the first time, I'm glad that I got Reaped, because otherwise, I never would have known about _this._

"I'm thrilled that you think so," Caddie tells me, and I can hear the pride in her voice. I don't blame her. I'd be just as proud if I could live here.

Then I hear Lyme clear her throat from behind us.

"Come on, Griffin. We're going to arrive soon. I have a few more things that I need to talk to you about."

"Can't it-"

"No," she snaps. "It cannot wait."

Then she leaves, and I reluctantly follow her away from the windows and into another room. I recognize it as the place where we ate last night. There are rolls and other dishes scattered around the table.

"If you want food, grab some while I talk." I nod and take a seat, piling an extra plate with food. She continues speaking. "Now, you're going to be taken to the remake center immediately. There, you will have a prep team and a stylist. You are to listen to what they say, no matter what. Especially the stylist. Now, District Two's stylist is not… conventional. Despite this, you cannot, I repeat cannot, argue with her."

"Wait," I say through a mouthful of muffin. "What do you mean?"

"She has a history of having a slightly… different style. I'm not sure what she'll do with you. You may just be scrawny enough to escape total nudity. She usually only does that with the beautiful girls. However, that doesn't mean she won't do it. Other than that, well, all I can tell you is that it'll have something to do with rocks. You know that our military forces are supposed to be secret, so that doesn't leave the stylists a lot to work with."

My mouth is kind of popped open as she's saying this, giving her a nice view of half chewed muffin. I force myself to swallow before I speak.

"So you're saying that I could get tossed out onto a chariot-"

"Completely naked? It's happened before. As I said, though, I don't know what she's going to do with you. You're skinnier than most of the girls from our district, which I do not get, seeing as you actually get enough to eat-"

"Good Lord, you sound like my mother," I say, interrupting her. "Now, do you have anything else to discuss? Maybe something less awkward?"

"Yes, I do," says Lyme bluntly. She narrows her eyes at me. "You really seem to like the Capitol."

I nod, slightly confused. "Yeah, it's beautiful."

"Well," she says, then hesitates before saying, her voice careful, "I want you to remember not to always judge a book by its cover."

"What?" I ask. I feel the train halt.

"Come on. It's time to go," she says, but she's looking at me hard, like she wants to communicate something. I try to read what she's trying to say, but before I really get a chance, a Capitol assistant finds me and whisks me away, leaving my thoughts going at about a million miles an hour.

…

A half hour after Lyme's little talk, I'm settled into what looks a heck of a lot like a larger version of my mom's bathroom, with three very… interesting people fussing over me.

The youngest one, Bianca, a woman in her early twenties with vibrant blue hair and eyes like liquid gold, is busy rubbing sweet-smelling goop into my long auburn curls. She is my favorite one by far, clearly focused on what she's doing and working in complete silence.

The other two have not shut their mouths yet. I'm pretty positive that Hermia is related to Caddie in some form. She doesn't act much smarter than my escort, and I think that her Capitol accent is even thicker than Caddie's, to the extent that most of her words come out completely unintelligibly, sounding more like a bird than a person.

Caius is marginally better. His voice is nowhere near as annoying, but the things that he says makes me wonder how he manages to breathe without help. For example, when I entered, he was thrilled that the daughter of a victor was in the Games. He then goes on to confess that he cannot remember my mother and asks me who she is, telling me that he thinks it'd be Rosaline Smith, because we look so much alike.

Rosaline won the Games three years ago. She is nineteen at the moment, with black hair and brown eyes.

After that, I started trying to tune him out as best as I can while still adding in enough of my own mindless chatter to give the right impression.

It's not quite as easy as it sounds, especially not when he keeps trying to talk over Hermia and me. I can feel Bianca's tension as the two of them start arguing about some kind of party favors, but she keeps her mouth shut and gently runs her fingers through my hair, making sure that all of the tangles are out.

I'm thankful that my preparation seems to be winding down. I've already gotten scrubbed and scoured and poked and prodded, and I really don't think that there's anything else they could do to me once Bianca finishes with my hair. Yes, Caius and Hermia are messing around with my nails at the moment, but from what I can tell, they're just keeping themselves busy. At least I haven't noticed any difference between now and when they started in on my nails ten minutes ago.

"Am I almost done?" I can't refrain from asking. I do manage to do it in a whiny voice, so at least I still sound shallow and brainless.

"Five more minutes," Bianca says reassuringly. "They're reinforcing your nails so they don't crack in the arena, and I need to finish with your hair. Then Medea can come work on you."

I swallow slightly.

"What wonders does she have waiting for me?"

I try to ask it like I actually think that they are wonders, but I'm not sure how well I succeed.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know," Bianca says softly. "But I'm sure it won't be too-"

"Oh, it'll be wonderful," Caius interrupts. "You should have seen what she did to the girl from last year! Beautiful! Medea is magical, a genius. Don't worry at all!"

From him, that really isn't a comfort. Bianca squeezes my shoulder gently. It's clear that she knows I'm more worried about this than I'm trying to show. I hope that she doesn't tell anyone.

"You'll be fine," she says gently.

Then she continues on my hair without another word, and Caius and Hermia finish up my nails.

When everything is complete, my prep team leaves me to wait for the glorious Medea.

I sit there for ten minutes, wearing nothing but a paper thin robe, shivering in the chilly building. I'm somewhat tempted to get up and look around the room, but to be honest, I'm afraid of the prospect of a stylist who sends her tributes to the ceremonies naked. For some reason, I think of some big, thick-boned disciplinarian who yells a lot, kind of like the personal trainer that my dad hired for Dylan a few years ago.

When she finally does get in the room, it turns out that I really didn't have anything to worry about, not punishment-wise anyway. Medea is a full head shorter than me, with long black hair and an eerily perfect face. With pale white skin and unnaturally blue eyes, I get the impression of some kind of specter, especially with how inhumanly graceful she is when she walks.

The whole look creeps me out, even if all the individual parts of her are beautiful. She doesn't scare me so much as she makes me very, very uncomfortable. It gets worse when she doesn't say anything, but just stands there and stares at me for a very, very long time.

Finally, after a lengthy, fidget-filled silence, she speaks.

"You'll do."

After that, she gestures for me to step forward. I get up warily and stand completely still while she takes off my robe and starts spreading this… stuff all over my body. I'm completely caught up in a cloud of marble-colored dust, and I can't really breathe without coughing.

Once she has covered nearly every square inch of exposed flesh with her powder crap, she goes to work adding other details, brushing on different colored makeup with a brush, adding touches everywhere, not just on my face.

When it looks like she has finished that, she leaves and comes back with what looks like a very long white scarf. Then I realize that it's my outfit. I suppose that it could be worse, but I'm still not very thrilled with the entire thing when she drapes it across certain parts of my body, revealing as much as possible without actually being considered naked.

"I really don't know about this," I can't help but complain, despite the fact that I'm supposed to be acting like a carefree ditz.

"Trust me. You are beautiful."

I also feel like one of my brother's slutty girlfriends, but I don't think that Medea would appreciate it too much if I told her that.

"If you say so," I mutter, too soft for her to hear. She keeps working, braiding back my hair, and then smothering it with clay-like slop that makes it extremely stiff. Then, for almost a half hour, she applies a whole crap load of gunk around my eyes until they stick a little bit every time I blink.

Then she steps back and leads me to the mirror.

I will admit, it's not as horrible as I thought. She's covered my body in enough shimmering white makeup that I literally look like an ancient statue. Yes, a slightly skinny statue, but at least nothing is _really _showing.

The only things that aren't marble white are my eyes, and even I have to give Medea some props on how much she managed to make them stand out. I guess all of that eye-makeup actually did have a purpose, because even I can see how my emerald green eyes look beautiful against my shimmering white skin.

As for the rest, well, I just hope that my brother has a little bit more on than I do, otherwise things are going to be very, very awkward.

"Ah, a true masterpiece. They are going to love you," Medea says.

I try not to cough.

"How could anybody not love me?" I chirp back, just like Caddie would.

Her smiles grows.

"Yes, yes, that's the spirit Alessia. Now, follow me. It is time to show you off."

If I could bottle up the look on Dylan's face when he sees me and keep it for the rest of my life (which may not be too long), I would. It's priceless.

When I first arrive at the chariot with Media behind me, his eyes kind of widen, like he's thinking that I'm hot or something, and then I give him my best dunderheaded smile. That's when he recognizes me and it looks like he's going to be sick.

I will say, though, he really has no reason to be so disgusted because despite my prayers, he is wearing absolutely nothing, probably because he actually does have a body that can be shown off. The problem is that I _really_ do not want to see it. It's not like they couldn't have just given him a loincloth or _something._

One little piece of fabric would not have been that big of a deal. There is no reason why he has to be naked. God, he's my _brother _for Lord's sake!

Unfortunately.

The sad thing is, he doesn't seem half as uncomfortable as I feel. He keeps smiling confidently, looking down on other tributes as they walk past our chariot. Yes, I keep smiling like a fool, but it looks like he actually means it. I guess if I were a guy who was six foot five and looked like an ancient Greek statue of Hercules, I would probably be that confident about this whole Hunger Games thing, too.

As it is, I'm not, and it's freezing, and I'm half naked and due to appear on national television in only a few minutes.

"I realize that you have a natural tendency to smile and wave at spectators," Medea tells me, "But if you want to get the full effect of the costume, stand completely still and look nowhere but forward."

That isn't exactly the best thing I can do for my plan, but I shrug, because Lyme did say that I was supposed to listen to her.

"Can I smile?" I ask. "Because, you know, I don't think that I'll be able to resist it. Not with all of these amazing people and this beautiful costume. It'd be impossible."

"No teeth," she says.

"Okay, I'll try reeeaaly hard to listen to you."

"Don't worry, I know you will," she says with a too-perfect smile. Then she leaves me alone with Dylan.

I turn to him and speak loudly, wanting everyone to look and see how amazingly intelligent I am.

"This is such a beautiful evening, isn't it? And we're both in this amazing city together. How could this get any better?" I ask cheerfully.

"Shut up," he growls between gritted teeth. "Or I will shut you up myself."

"Haha, you've always been so funny. Remember that one time, when I was five, and you-"

He lunges for me, and I move backwards as quickly as I can. I'm barefoot, and I'm glad. If I would've had heels on, he most likely would have gotten me, and I would've been dead before I got to the arena. As it is, I dart behind one of the horses before he can get his hands around my throat.

"Whoa, I know that you've always had a temper, but you know, you could get in trouble for fighting before the Games," I tell him, flashing my biggest smile.

There's a vein in his forehead that's protruding rather unattractively. I'm tempted to tell him this, but I really, really don't want to die quite yet, so I keep my mouth shut.

"Watch it, Griffin, or you'll be the first one I kill," says Dylan, calling me by my last name like we're archenemies... well, and like that's not his last name, too.

"You know, Griffin, Mom wouldn't be too happy about that."

His eyes are getting really squinty now, too. They're almost as comical as the vein in his forehead.

He growls, but doesn't comment. After that, I keep silent for the rest of the wait, not uttering another word until we get into the chariot. Then, I manage two, and I know that I shouldn't say them, but I can't help myself.

"Good luck."

He looks at me like I've spoken a foreign language, but at least he doesn't glare, so I take that as I good enough sign. We make eye contact for just a moment, and then the chariot jerks forward and I look straight ahead, curve my lips into a small smile, and freeze in place.

When we pull out of the basement of the remake center, the first thing that I notice is the noise. It's like we hit a brick wall, that's how stunning the sound is. It feels as if the entire Capitol is there, cheering for us, for _me._

I think again how amazing this city is, how amazing it would be to live here, to not have any worries and to be made so happy by little things like this.

Then I remember how Lyme said not to judge things by how they appear, and this strange, foreign thought creeps into my head, and I have to wonder: what exactly am I implying when I think '_this'? _Yes, at the moment, I'm thinking about the opening ceremonies, but don't they enjoy the actual Games, too?

Well, of course they do. We killed their ancestors, rebelled against them with no reason to do so. We were ungrateful. Some people still are ungrateful.

But should the Districts really be made to carry the burdens of people long dead?

My eyes move around, taking in all of the smiling, cheering faces, and I realize that yes, we should have to carry the burden, that competing in the Games is the only way that we can make up for what we started all those years ago. We ruined the lives of ignorant, undeserving people, just like this, back during the rebellion. Taking away the innocence of people like that is unquestionably wrong.

_But what about our innocence?_

I pinch my arm a little bit, drawing my thoughts away from dangerous territory. Now is not the time to be thinking about things like this. Besides, I don't actually believe my thoughts anyway. It's just my fear mixing with Lyme's senseless words and subconsciously working its way into the completely logical beliefs that I have grown up with.

Besides, how can these people who love me so much, who are cheering my name, be anything but good? How can I hate them when boys are asking to marry _me, _the girl who all of my brother's friends wrote off as a too-skinny nerd?

I hold my head a little bit higher. This feels too good for there to be anything wrong with it. The Hunger Games are our fault, and no one else's. Really, it's actually generous for the Capitol to give us this much fun, this much attention, before we die.

Because I know for a fact that some of the tributes, like that starving boy from District Twelve, would've died shortly anyway, and that the Capitol is just giving them a way to die happy.

_What about me, though? What if I die? I _was _happy._

Well, if I die, that's the price I pay for the stupidity of my ancestors.

_Yeah. My ancestors, not me. Besides, why is that boy starving anyway, when the Capitol has all of this?_

I really, really wish that I could shut my thinking off, but I've always had a problem with that. I blame Lyme for this. Now I'm looking too far into everything, and sometimes that gets you questioning too many things that you just don't question.

I close my eyes for a moment, try to focus. Even if these thoughts made any sense, this is obviously not the time to be thinking them. I need to be paying more attention to what's going on.

The chariots progress in their loop through the city circle, and I focus on standing perfectly still, all while making sure that my mind is occupied with keeping my smile on my face, or taking in the beautiful city, or just doing anything other than getting itself into trouble.

Finally, our chariot pulls up next to District One's, right in front of Snow's mansion. He's standing out front with a welcoming smile on his face. I find it hard to stay calm. This is the president of Panem, and he isn't twenty yards away from me. All of the wonderful stories that I have heard of this man's kindness run through my head, and I forget all of the negative thoughts that I was having about the Capitol.

President Snow is looking at the tributes and smiling, like such a powerful, high-ranking man is glad to see _us. _I find it harder and harder to keep my smile small. One of my goals in life has always been to meet President Snow. I have already corresponded with him several times, always on the instruction of various tutors, asking for his advice on certain military situations. His replies have been genius and polite, and I think that his politeness is why I really respect him.

I just wish that he could see me in something more respectable.

Once all of the other chariots arrive, Snow gets into the official speech that he always makes, talking about how great it is to see us here, and how it's going to be another amazing year in the Hunger Games. I keep my head bowed respectfully, latching onto every word that comes out of his mouth.

If I get back to District Two, I'm going to brag to all of my tutors all about this.

Eventually, Snow finishes up his speech, and the chariots do one more lap around the city circle before pulling into the Training Center. I enjoy it a lot more this time, taking the time to absorb everything that happens, to listen to the cheering and yelling and to actually relax.

When I'm not freaking myself out, the whole thing is more than fun. It's invigorating. With all of those people yelling and rooting for me, it's hard not to let myself get more confident, to think that if all of these people have so much faith in me, why can't I win the Games?

The longer I listen to the crowd, the longer that I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins, the more that the apprehension and terror of getting chosen fades to excitement. Like I want to get into the arena and get these people to keep cheering for me. Like I want to _live, _and spend the rest of my life being loved and respected by all of these people, just like my mom.

It's an intoxicating feeling, the power and the adrenaline that comes with all of the screaming and attention. I have to wonder if this feeling, like I can do anything, is what being high feels like.

Then, nearly as quickly as it started, the ceremonies are done. The chariot pulls back into the Remake Center, and I make my way back to District Two's quarters. The further that I get from the crowd, the more at peace that I feel. Away from the screaming reminders of what I'm days away from going through, my brain quits overheating and things start making sense again. I realize that I was just panicking, that fear really was diluting my thinking. Because things that were so logical only days ago don't just become illogical quite that quickly.

By the time that I get back to my room, any doubts that I had about the Capitol are completely erased by Snow's speech, by the cheering fans, and by all of my rationalizing. I smile while I scrub off all of my makeup, my thoughts now taking on an exhilarated tenor from the remaining adrenaline and the feeling of the screams that were loud enough to _feel._

Just as I'm finishing, Caddie knocks on my door and urges me to hurry, saying that they're starting the replays soon. I quickly throw on some clothes and follow Caddie to a room where everyone else is all sitting. The Ceremonies have already started, and with my luck they flash to the District 2 chariot the moment I arrive, where I'm standing half-naked by my completely naked brother.

"Ugh, that does not compliment my figure at all," I mutter, because for one thing, it really doesn't, and for another, that's the only way that I can say it completely sucked.

Dylan snorts.

"What figure?"

Ah, my loving, caring brother.

Not much else happens after that lovely sibling bonding experience. Brutus and Dylan talk about the size of the guy from District Four's biceps, which were on full display in his costume that had him looking like Neptune. I comment that he _does _have very nice biceps, but his abs are cuter. That earns me a look from Dylan that clearly says, _Don't play that game with me._

In response, I give him a smile and shrug my shoulders, silently asking him, _What game?_

He shakes his head and looks away. I try to continue watching the ceremonies, but they really aren't that exciting, and even though apparently some Capitol people loved Medea's work, I'm not too thrilled with actually seeing it. I feel more uncomfortable just watching than I did when I was actually there, and as the thing keeps going and they keep flashing to District Two, mostly talking about Dylan's physique, my good mood fades.

Eventually I start focusing on the other tributes, once again listing possible deaths for each one in my head. Different stabbings, betrayals, poisonings, and traps spring into my head, and even though the images come with blood and death, I figure that it's more useful than listening to a discussion about my brother's powerful gluteus maximus, so I keep at it until Lyme says I can go.

When everything is finished, we all have a real quick meal, and then Lyme talks me into going to sleep early because she wants to talk to me before training tomorrow morning, and I can't be too tired to listen.

Even though I argue that I'm not tired yet, when I get into my room, I can't deny that the pillow really doesn't look that bad. For a moment, I worry that nervousness and fear may keep me awake, but after a second all of my bad thoughts fade away as the exhaustion from the long day takes over.

Tonight, I dream about Dylan again, tearing me apart piece by piece with laughing blue eyes, just like my mother's.


	4. Chapter 5

The next morning, Caddie wakes me up nice and early so I have time to eat and talk with Lyme before training starts. I take a quick shower, then change into the fitted black knee length pants and loose green shirt that were left out for me.

When I get dining room, Lyme is sitting there, absentmindedly eating sausages while she sifts through a small stack of papers.

"What're those for?" I ask as I take a seat beside her and start heaping my plate full of food. She doesn't even look at me, just raises her eyes to glare at Caddie until she scurries out the door.

"It's a roster of all of the tributes. I don't have anything material on here yet, but I've got an estimated height and weight, district, and gender, as well as characteristics that they _seem _to possess."

"Okay," I say, glancing at the sheets. "What good is that going to be? No offense, but I can kind of figure all of those things out by just looking."

"It's so we can make a list of tributes that would make productive allies. If you team up with someone who can't kill any better than you can, it's another mouth to feed in addition to being another chance at getting betrayed."

"But most of the good tributes are Careers who wouldn't team up with me to save their lives."

"I get that, but there are always some who prefer to work in small groups. If I can make a perfect pitch, then they may just let you tag along."

"But I'm supposed to be stupid. No matter what you say, they'll think that. I can't just let them know that I'm smart. What if they turn their back on me and tell everyone? What am I supposed to do?"

"That's easy. You keep your mouth shut. You stay stupid and untalented, just as dopey as ever, but you also play another card."

"And what's that?"

"The sponsors card. You did good last night, and no matter what your training score is, you're your mother's daughter. People will be falling over themselves to sponsor you, especially if they learn that you have her approval over your brother. No matter how weak you appear, I'll be able to wrestle some people into sponsoring you just because of who you are."

"And the other tributes are going to know that?" I ask, skeptical.

"They'll have an idea. It'll especially be tempting to tributes born in the more populated Districts. You could possibly mean weapons and food, not to mention that they may think you could get them out of an encounter with Dylan. It's even better because if they think that you're weak, they figure that as soon as the partnership is inconvenient, they could simply end it."

"Uh, Lyme. I'm not sure if you forgot this, but they probably _could _end it. I'm not exactly Brutus, you know."

"Yes, but you're too smart to let them catch you off guard. You'll see if they're about to turn on you, and then you can either get out of there, or kill them first."

"Okay, I can maybe see this working, but what good is a partner from a populated district? My main problem is going to be food, and even Finnick Odair didn't get catered to his entire Games. I'm not going to get half that many sponsors."

"I understand that, but we also both know that you're smart enough to find food if necessary. I encourage you to spend time at the edible plants station during training. Other than that, I said that it'd be easier to get an ally from a populated district, not better. I'll try to get you an ally from a rural district first, or hope that whoever I can get gets food from the cornucopia."

"Or," I say, thinking hard now. "I let someone else get the food for us. How hard do you think it will be to watch and wait for a tribute to leave with packs of food, then follow them and wait until they're asleep to kill them?"

"Harder than you think," she says. "It'd be possible, but I wouldn't bank on the idea. I have doubts about your stealth, and there's only a 50-50 chance, if even, that your partner will be able sneak around any better than you can. I suppose if you were to ambush them, but we don't know if there'll be a situation where that is possible. No, if I were you, I would try to team up with a partner from seven, ten, eleven, or possibly twelve, at least if all of the tributes from One and Four make a pack."

"And what if none of them will team up with me?"

"Try Six and Nine. If they don't work, you can bank on either Three or Eight. Out of those two, however, I would go with Three. I'm not sure on how smart the tributes from Eight are, and they wouldn't know about survival either. At least from District Three you could get some added intelligence out of the deal."

"Alright. I think I have this. Now, from what your sheets say, which tributes do you think I should try to work with?"

After that, we basically just discuss different attributes that she's been able to pick up from each tribute so far. We don't get very far, since I still have at least a day of training to learn about them before I have to start making allies, but I do get a decent idea of who I would want as a partner.

The clear favorite would be the boy from One because he seems like the perfect bodyguard type. A stupid Career who would probably do what I told him, and who most likely knows how to use weapons. Other than him, Lyme wants me to look at the girls from ten and twelve, the guy from eleven, and possibly the boy from Four, although chances of him not being in the Career pack are slim to none.

By the time that we're done discussing possible allies, Dylan and Caddie are waiting to report to training. I hurriedly gulp down the last of my orange juice and follow them, trying to figure out how I'm going to be able to get close enough to any of the tributes to make an actual alliance.

We have to take the elevator down to training, since it's below ground level. I'll admit, I think about slitting my throat on the way down, even thought it doesn't even take a minute. Caddie keeps chirping about crap that no one cares about, and I try to contest her to see who can say the stupidest thing, all while Dylan looks on in complete disgust. I kind of wonder if I'm just moving myself up on his list of targets, but it's not like stopping would work any better.

When the door to the elevator finally opens and I hurry out, my mouth snaps shut and I can feel my eyes go wide. I can hear Dylan's sharp intake of breath.

The training room is an enormous gymnasium, roughly the size of the entire peacekeeper academy. District Two's training center isn't a fraction of its size, and probably doesn't teach half of the things that I can see here. There are weapons that I never heard of scattered everywhere, elaborate obstacle courses, and several large stations filled with glass boxes and various plants.

I'm in awe of it just because of its sheer size, but I can feel a total different kind of amazement coming off of Dylan. When I glance at him, I have to wonder if he doesn't think that he's already died and gone to heaven. He looks like such a little kid that I can feel my smile grow warmer.

Then I jerk my head away from him and mentally kick myself, because any guy who sees a room full of knives and maces and looks like a five year old on Christmas isn't a guy who I should be smiling at warmly.

There are a few tributes clustered together in the middle of the room, but most of them haven't arrived yet. I glance at Dylan and see him starting towards the main circle, so I follow after him.

As soon as we move towards the circle, I start recognizing different tributes. The first one that I notice is the big guy from One, even though from this close I can see that he's shorter than Dylan and even a little thinner. He just seemed so big because the girl next to him is tinier than I thought. When I get close to her, I can see that she can't be more than 5'2. Even though she's built like a fighter and carries herself like someone who's intelligent, I can't help but think that she isn't as much of a threat as I originally thought, but that the boy is more dangerous than I had expected.

Next to the District 1 tributes are District 4 and what I _think _is District 11. I can't help but ogle at the boy from District 4 for just a moment, and it isn't even part of my act. He probably isn't six feet tall, and definitely not as big as Dylan or the dude from District 1, but he's got this build that clearly says he's the fastest in the Games, with dark eyes that scream dangerous. Shaggy black hair hangs in his eyes, and he's smirking, completely at ease despite the tenseness of the other tributes.

He's the type of guy that Janie, one of my younger tutors, would watch Games replays a dozen times just to check out. It's not that he's extremely good looking, he actually has kind of a gruesome scar all along the right side of his face, but the way he conducts himself is so perfect that you have to think he is.

He also scares the crap out of me, which is why when he catches me staring, it takes everything I have not to flinch and look away. Instead, I force a smirk back at him. He strolls over to where I'm standing, and I notice that Dylan leaves as soon as he starts heading our way.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the daughter of the legendary Drina Griffin. I'll admit, it's an honor," the guy drawls in a rough voice, his words slow and deliberate. I recognize District Four's distinct accent, but it's thicker on him than I remember it being on Finnick Odair when he spoke during Annie Cresta's victory tour a few months ago.

I step closer to him, real close, cringing internally as I do so.

"Oh, no. The honor is all mine. It's not often that I meet a god of the sea," I say airily, thinking of the costume he had worn last night. "Care to introduce yourself, Neptune?" Something flashes in his eyes that makes him look a lot like a shark chasing a baby seal. Suddenly I don't care quite how amazing of a tribute he is. I don't trust him any farther than I can throw him. After seeing that look in his eyes, for just that second, I can't help but think that if I die in these Games, he's going to be the one to kill me.

Or Dylan. Depends on which one gets to me first.

"Gaston Demers," he says, holding out his hand. When I shake it, he traps mine in his and leans closer, so that his lips are right beside my ear. "And you do know that every god needs a goddess, right, Griffin?"

"How adorable. Are you taking tips from your mentor?" I ask playfully.

"How'd you know that? You have personal experience?"

I swallow the bile in my throat at what he's implying and force my next sentence to come out smoothly.

"He was in town for the victory tour a few months ago," I tease. "What else do you think he'd find to do in District Two?"

Gaston kisses my neck then steps back. I have to work not to breathe a sigh of relief.

"So, I take it that you like fishermen?"

"As long as they're as cute as you."

I hear someone snort from beside us, and glance over to see the girl from District Seven looking at me like I'm a moron. Good. I hope they spread the news.

"Too bad you got reaped then, because I wouldn't have minded paying you a visit on my victory tour."

Then he musses up his hair and walks away chuckling to himself, like he just won something. I have to work not to smirk at his back. I just got one of the most powerful tributes in these Games to completely discount me.

A few minutes after my conversation with Gaston, the two tributes from District Twelve hurry in, and a tall, athletic woman named Atala gets up and starts outlining the training schedule for us.

There are dozens of stations, all of them focusing on either survival or weapons training. There are experts who stay at each station and help teach you as much as they can. We're free to go from station to station as we with, but we cannot engage in any physical activity with another tribute. They have assistants if we want to practice things such as wrestling moves with a live person.

Once she's finished with that, she lists all of the stations and then lets us go off on our own to work on what we please.

For the entire first day, I basically live in the survival stations, not even trying to pick up allies in favor of learning how to keep myself alive. I still try to act ditzy, still worry about my hair and flirt with whatever guys wander my way, but I also pay close attention and make sure that I pick up as much as I possibly can. After spending a few hours looking at edible plants, I learn how to start fires, with matches at least, then finish up the day tying knots and working on building shelters.

It's not much, but at least it gives me a rough idea of ways to stay alive if Lyme can't get me a partner.

It's apparent that Dylan has different ideas of his survival than I do, because on the entire elevator ride back to our floor, he's describing the quality of the weapons to Caddie in enough detail to nearly put me to sleep. The worst part about it is that he has that stupid boyish look on his face again, and I know for a fact that I can't let myself think about him as an excited little boy.

It's kind of hard, though, because when I see him so enthusiastic like he is, I can't help but think that maybe I should have gotten to know my brother just a little bit better.

"-and you should have seen the weights that they had. I swear that they were made out of silver." He shakes his head in amazement. "If I win, I'm getting myself a set of dumbbells like that."

"So if you win, you'll still keep training?" I ask him, confused. He glances at me and shrugs his shoulders.

"Obviously. Do you really think that I want to get old and fat? Especially with the girls. Can you imagine-"

"No, I can't, so please don't go into anymore detail," I interrupt him. He snorts.

"Says the girl who was flirting with Gaston Demers. I'd throw up just thinking about it."

"What, jealous that he's cuter than you?" Dylan laughed harshly.

"You don't know where your dreamboat got that scar from, do you?" he asks. I shake my head. "A peacekeeper. His dad was caught making plans against the Capitol, and when they came to take him away, the idiot tried to protect him, got a bayonet through his cheek. Brutus says that he got sent to the Games because Snow was mad at him for threatening to murder him. He may look tough, but I don't think he has a chance of winning."

"Wait," I say, my eyes wide. "He's a rebel?"

I try to match the image of the good-looking, dangerous guy in my head with the pictures that my tutors of showed me of barbaric men with pitchforks.

"Yeah, he is. So if I were you, I wouldn't be so disgusted at anyone else's habits."

"Ugh, I think I'm going to be sick," I mutter, but even as I say that, Lyme's words force their way into my head again. If Dylan's right, they killed his father, sent Gaston to the Games to get rid of him.

But honestly, can I blame the Capitol for that one? His father was a traitor, and I have to wonder if Gaston isn't on the verge of turning into a raging psychopath.

The Capitol is right on this account. Gaston is filthy. He deserves to die, and so did his traitorous father. Their judgment is intelligent, perfect.

I need to stop questioning the Capitol. It's a bad habit to get into when I know that President Snow is never wrong.

I look down at my hands, then at my brother, so close to me. He could be trying to kill me in days. And that _is wrong_, on so many accounts.

Of course, that's just bad luck, not Snow or anyone else in the Capitol.

Clearly.

* * *

><p>AN-

I had a track meet far, far away today, so I got a lot of free time to work on this, translating into an early chapter. That is good because I have another track meet this weekend, not far enough away to bother with a laptop for, and therefore I'm going to have limited updating time, which is going to be used on Spreading the Fire since that's still my main fic.

So if I don't get another update out until next Tuesday or Wednesday, that's why.

Other than that note, all I have to say is please, please, please review. I really, really love it when you do, and even just a sentence or a word, or something to tell me what you think, is fine.

Thank you.

~bballgirl32~

P.S.- Not a huge fan of suggesting my own works, but if anyone likes the dystopian thing going on in the Hunger Games (or books like Matched or Delirium or whatever), I'm just posted the first chapter of a dystopian Harry Potter fic that I would be freakishly happy if you checked out. Just if you're interested.


	5. Chapter 6

The next day at training, I spend an hour in the morning reviewing the things that I went over yesterday, then head to the combat skills portion of the area. Most of the tributes are hanging out around there, silent and looking deadly.

I catch a glimpse of the boy from Eleven firing arrow after arrow into a dummy and talk to him for a while, trying to sound friendly and ignorant without being annoying and downright stupid. He doesn't say much, but I have a feeling that he's a quiet kind of person. I like him almost immediately and mentally list him as the person that I'd want as my ally above anyone else.

After I talk to him, I visit the girl from Twelve at the knife throwing station where she's struggling to hit her target. Even though I've never thrown a knife before, I can clearly see what she's doing wrong. She's holding the knife by the hilt and chucking it instead of flicking it like simple physics would tell you is necessary.

I walk up beside her and try it the way I think it should be done, and what I would assume from the few times that I've seen Dylan practicing. It's a lot more accurate than hers, but still doesn't stick. A trainer comes over and helps the two of us, and by the time that I'm done, I can throw a knife, and the girl gives me a very wary smile, even after hearing me whine to the guy at the station for five minutes straight about how throwing knives messes up my nails.

At lunch, I take a seat next to the girl from Ten and start chatting about the outfits for the opening ceremonies. It's girly, but not quite pointless enough to annoy her. She looks a little creeped out, and kind of nervous, but by the end of the meal I have her giving me one word replies, at least thinking that I'm friendly if nothing else.

After lunch I go up to the guy from One while he's sword training and tell him that he looks clumsy, which prompts him to smirk and ask to see what I can do. I breezily tell him that I've never handled a sword in my life.

"Well," he says, his voice a lot lighter and more teasing than I would've expected from a guy his size. "Give me a show. I need some entertainment."

So I pick up a sword and wave it around feebly, laughing for real while he laughs too, and it sounds like he's laughing with me rather than at me, which I really didn't expect.

"Ugh, this is so horrible for my hair," I complain, dropping the heavy sword. It lands on the hard floor with a clank. The guy, who introduced himself as Prynce, uses a big hand to muss up my hair even more. It's the same thing that Gaston did yesterday, but it doesn't seem half as condescending.

I laugh and whine, and Prynce smiles, says good-bye, and wanders off to where the girl from his District is throwing spears. I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing more when I see him cuff her on the back of the head, then cringe away when she spins around and starts snapping at him.

Then I feel arms around my waist and warm breath on my neck and I completely forget about Prynce.

"You moving on, Princess?" Gaston drawls in District Four's distinct accent.

I giggle, but even I know that my eyes aren't into it. Instead, they're staring at that white scar running down his left cheek, wondering if he really got it where Dylan said he did.

"Every Prynce needs a princess, you know," I say with a grin. "Besides, what good is having all of these cute boys around if I can't test the waters a little bit?"

"Well, I wouldn't test those waters," he said, glaring at Prynce. "The only thing that trusting him would do is earn you a knife in the back."

"He wouldn't do that," I say laughingly, even though there's a good chance that Gaston is telling the truth.

"You keep believing that, Angel."

"What's it matter anyway? I thought you were going to be the one with the victory parade," I laugh.

He throws an arm around my shoulder and for a moment I cringe away, my brain screaming that a filthy rebel is touching me. Then I feel how warm he really is and even though it's stupid, I can't help but relax into his touch. It's not like I'll catch the rebel, anyway.

"I suppose you're right," he says. "Now, let's say you help me with that. You see, your brother scares me, and he obviously doesn't seem to like you too much. If you could give me a hint or two, I could get rid of a nuisance for the both of us. That way both of us have a good chance to get home."

I'm surprised at how stupid he really thinks that I am, at how obviously he asks the question, but I don't let myself show it. Instead, I lean my head back against his chest and let out an overdramatic peal of laughter.

"Oh, I can tell you lots," I giggle. "All you have to do is trick him. Try to be his friend. He's dumber than a sack of rocks. You see, I got the intelligence in the family."

I end that sentence with more airy laughter, and Gaston smirks.

"Friends, eh? I never would've thought of that. Anything else? Some of his strengths?"

I could say that I don't know. I could wash my hands of the situation and be done with it, give Dylan that little advantage over Gaston that I already have by lying about his intelligence. I don't, though. Because Dylan is my brother and I'm taking his side over some random flirt who I don't even know.

So I tell him the opposite of everything I know about Dylan.

"He can't use a sword to save his life. I've beat him." More giggles. "He's just horrid with a bow, too, but he scares me when he swings the big spiky stick around."

"So he's good with a mace- er, big spiky stick?"

"Yes," I tell him, smiling like I'm so proud of myself. He leans forward and touches his lips to mine for just a moment. I'm mad at myself for it, but right when he steps back, I imagine that his kiss will be the high point of my Games.

"Thank you so much, Princess. I'll make sure to get rid of your scary monster brother for you before he can hit you with the big spiky stick."

I giggle and grin.

"Oh, thank you so much. I've been having nightmares about that forever."

He walks away chuckling just like yesterday, once again so confident that he got the last laugh.

For a moment, I regret giving Dylan such an advantage over Gaston. Because I would really, really enjoy going after him with a big spiky stick.

After my conversation with Gaston, I end up going to the spear throwing station when I see the guy from Eleven, who finally tells me that his name is Byre, drilling dummy after dummy there. I'm surprised to find that I'm actually not completely horrible at throwing them, even though I can't hit a target from half the distance that Byre can.

When I finish there, I spend the remaining time reviewing all of the survival stations that I have gone to. When Atala finally announces that it's time for us to go, I look towards Gaston and give him my best smile, then prance away like a happy-go-lucky airhead.

The moment that I'm in elevator, I see a flash of giant teenage boy flying at me, and then I'm pinned against the glass wall with an enormous hand at my throat.

"And what did you tell him?" he growls.

"Tell who?" I choke out, even though I have a pretty good idea.

"That prick from Four!"

"Nothing," I manage to cough. He tightens his grip on my neck.

"Don't lie to me. He told me what you did. What did you tell him?"

"Can't… speak," I rasp out, but I can see in Dylan's eyes that he doesn't care.

"ANSWER ME!"

His hold gets tighter, and the edges of my vision start to turn black. I have a vague feeling that he's going to kill me if I don't do anything. So, I do the first thing that I can think of.

I spit in his face, then kick him where it hurts and wriggle out of his grasp.

He lunges for me, but I'm expecting it and manage to get out of the way.

"YOU LITTLE BITCH! YOU JUST GOT ME KILLED!"

He swings his head and tries to punch me, but ends up missing and smacking his fist against the glass wall instead. I back into the corner of the elevator, my eyes brimming with tears, because despite everything, it's still an eye-opener when your brother has you pinned against a wall, choking you. I regret helping him.

Dylan turns on me, his cold eyes chilling me to the bone, his fist raised.

"I'm going to kill you," he pants, already over screaming, his voice now deadly quiet. My spit is still running down his face.

"Go to hell, asshole," I rasp out. It's stupid, but it isn't like he would've listened to anything else anyway. He makes a move towards me, but the elevator door opens at that second and I hurry out of his reach, sprinting as fast as I can to get to the dining room, where I know Lyme and Brutus will be waiting for us to eat.

He's about an inch away from catching me when I fall through the door. Lyme and Brutus both jump up, but Dylan is still on top of me in a second. I feel his strong hands around my neck, and then he's gone. When I turn around and look up, panting and trying not to start sobbing, Brutus has him pinned to the ground.

Lyme kneels down beside me and gently touches my neck, where I'm sure that there are red marks. I can barely see her through the tears in my eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asks softly. I ignore her and shakily get up off the ground, then walk over to where Brutus is snapping at Dylan, still holding him onto the floor.

I look down at Dylan and meet his hate-filled eyes. When I talk, my voice is raspy and hollow.

"I lied to him. If he listens to me, he's going to make sure that he's your ally, then probably try to kill you in your sleep. He doesn't think you can use a sword, or a bow. I figured you would have assumed that."

Then I storm away, slamming the door behind me and letting tears flow freely. For the first time, I understand exactly what going into the arena with him means, and I understand how little he does actually care about killing me.

He's probably more eager to do it now than ever.

When I'm in my room, I slam that door too, loudly enough that I'm sure Dylan will hear. Then I hop in the shower and let the hot water wash away my tears, wishing that they could take away the memory of my brother tackling me to the ground and trying to kill me.

There are bruises running up the sides of my neck the next morning. I look through the clothing that is provided for me, but there's absolutely nothing that would cover even the bottom part of the marks, which stand out clearly against my pale skin.

I sigh and throw on white pants and a vibrant blue top, hoping that maybe the color will draw attention away from the bruises.

Caddie still gasps when she sees me. She doesn't say a word the entire way to the dining area. Lyme just shakes her head at me. Like always, Brutus and Dylan are eating separately, and I'm glad. I do not want to see my brother right now.

Of course, I have to see him soon enough. Caddie runs to get him within fifteen minutes, and then he walks over to the elevator, looking everywhere but at me. The ride down to the training area is the same way. No one speaks or says anything. Dylan looks resolutely at his feet.

Caddie is looking at me like she's waiting for my usual cheesy smile, and I'm waiting for the same thing from her. Neither of us can really manage it.

After what seems like an eternity, we reach our destination. Caddie leaves. Dylan and I walk awkwardly into the training center, then separate immediately. I screw up a smile and continue with the pattern that I did yesterday, even though I can tell that I don't have the same friendliness today, and come across as more annoying instead. No one asks about the bruises, probably because it's apparent that there's only one person who could have given them to me. Or maybe it's just because no one cares.

Gaston doesn't speak a word to me.

I'm relieved that training sessions only go half the day today. I'm in the mood to go back to my room and mope, and no doubt I'll be ready to do that even more after I completely blow my private session.

During lunch that day, I consider everything that I could possibly do, then realize that any weapons I use couldn't get me anything over a three. I think for a moment, then decide to take a chance. District Two is one of the first districts to go, so I don't have to do anything really attention catching.

If I can convince them that I'm smart enough, maybe they'll give me a decent score. I'm not sure how they'll react to a tribute going in there and talking, but I figure that it's the best chance that I have to get something respectable. If I end up with a one, well, it was worth a shot.

While I sit there and wait for them to start calling tributes, I try to focus on what to say instead of thinking about Dylan and dying and how much I really want to go home and leave all of this crap behind.

I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I don't hear anyone approach until I feel the gentle hands on my neck. I jump out of my seat and turn around, reflexively grabbing my butter knife and holding it in the person's face.

Then I see that it's Gaston. My heart stops and the knife clatters to the ground.

"Really? You're going to stab me with a fucking butter knife?" he asks, dark eyes twinkling with amusement. I force a smile.

"How do you know that I didn't think you were a giant slice of butter?" I ask. He laughs at me like I'm the stupidest person in the room.

"Somehow, I doubt that," he says as he takes a seat next to me. "Now, my mentor has apparently been talking to your mentor."

I nearly groan.

"Ooh, cool. And what have they been talking about?"

"Your mentor says that you're looking for a partner, and that you offer more than if seems. I'll agree to be your partner on one condition."

I grit my teeth. Right. I haven't had a chance to talk to Lyme about this certain piece of trash.

But what about Dylan? Didn't I tell him to go partner himself with Dylan?

I bite my lip, then finally settle on asking, "What condition?"

He smirks. I feel something terrible ready to happen.

"You agree to help me out."

"Oh, how could I possibly help you?" I ask airily. He fixes me with a terrifyingly dark gaze.

"I think that you could help me quite a bit, actually. At least according to your brother."

I feel like I'm going to throw up.

Instead, I force a light stream of giggles.

"My brother is so nice, though. He lies about me to make me look better."

"Somehow," Gaston says, running his hands over my bruises again, "I doubt that. You may have fooled me before, but even if I'm a little slow sometimes, I catch onto things. A real moron wouldn't call their brother nice after he strangled them."

"I-"

"And Dylan Griffin doesn't do revenge halfway. He was pissed at you after I told him what we talked about, and a pissed off Griffin would make sure that I knew just how much of a threat you were."

"I don't know what-"

"You lied to me, you little whore."

"Why would you believe Dylan over me?" I ask shakily, trying and failing to keep my voice unconcerned.

"He told me you were smarter than you looked," Gaston continues, as if he didn't even hear me. "Now, how smart does a girl with clearly no physical skill have to be if she continues to play the Hunger Games as if she has a chance at winning?"

"What're you talking about?"

"I'd say smart enough to make an idiot out of me. You know, that's going to be a hard thing for me to forgive."

"I-I never did anything wrong."

"How about this, Angel? If you keep denying what I already know, then I'll go around and tell everyone your little secret. If you tell me the truth and I'm not satisfied, I'll tell everyone your secret. But if you can convince me of your usefulness, I may just allow you to live until you're no longer useful."

I close my eyes and take a shaky breath. It feels like I'm being forced to chose between getting my arms cut off or my legs.

I could tell Gaston to get away from me, could let him tell everyone and hope that they don't believe him. Or I could get him to partner up with me and hope that he doesn't kill me in my sleep.

It's a lose-lose situation.

"What about my brother?" I plead. "If you partner up with him, you can gain his trust and-"

"I know that you lied," he growls. "If I were to become a Career and share a camp with your brother, he would take me out right away, then ditch the rest of those useless morons. You have no other options."

I see Dylan getting up and leaving the room out of the corner of my eye. I have maybe fifteen minutes before this conversation is done. I need to make a decision.

"You'd basically be on your own with me," I tell him slowly. "I can't help you with food or shelter, nothing like that. And I'd slow you down a lot."  
>"Yes, but if you're as smart as Dylan made it sound like, you could also help me take out every single other tribute without so much as getting me hands dirty."<p>

"I would be crazy to trust you," I say, even though my choice is more or less already made. If people didn't think I was stupid, I would have no chance. On the other hand, if I'm with Gaston, I have a fifty-fifty chance. I could kill him the moment I decided it was convenient, and he could do the same to me. It would just depend on who was more patient.

"But you have to, don't you?" he asks knowingly. I glare at him, then exhale swiftly.

"Fine. I'll be your ally. You want proof that I'm smart, all you have to do is think about what would have happened if my asshole brother hadn't ratted me out."

He doesn't even hesitate.

"You could've gotten me killed."

"I would've gotten you killed," I amend. He shakes his head, and for a moment I think that he's going to ask for more, but instead he just holds out his hand. I shake it warily.

"Alright. We got ourselves a deal." Then he leaves, and I bury my face in my hands, wondering what in the hell I just got myself into.

But before I can dwell on it for too long, an attendant walks over to me and gestures for me to come with him, and then I'm back in the training room, which looks a lot more scary when it's empty. The dozen high profile Capitol people staring down at me don't help, either.

I take a deep breath, then hurry over to them and start talking fast before I can lose my courage.

"I don't know if I'm even going to get any points for this, but it's my only chance at a decent score at all. I can't use weapons, I'm not athletic, and I can hardly even start a fire. But I do know how to kill."

Then I start spouting military strategy from my mouth at a million miles per hour.

I talk about bait and bleed strategy, which is getting two different groups into confrontation until they kill each other off while I watch from the sidelines. I talk about how I could use counterforce or countervalue depending on the situation, in other words, targeting food and supplies, or the actual people. I list other ideas, from distraction and feinting to raiding or turning maneuvers that'd chase tributes out of their home areas and lead them in a direction that would prevent them from getting back. I go into detail on the scorched earth idea, which avoids any actual confrontation but instead involves burning an area where I know the enemy to be, taking away supplies and preventing escape while they burn to death. Then, I briefly mention the usual style of the Games, known as Fabian Warfare, which on this scale would be picking off the enemy one by one.

Lastly, I go into the psychological aspect of things that I have learned. My favorite. I talk about baiting starving tributes with food, or taking hostages, of killing leaders and leaving the rest of the group to disband by themselves. I talk about stealing items and leaving evidence suggesting that it was a member of a group to cause discord. I talk about lying and playing on fears and how to use strategies of psychological warfare. I tell them how if you feint twice and an enemy falls for it both times, chances are that they'll ignore it a third time and then you attack. I talk about how being obvious is the best way to hide, and how pretending to be hurt is one of the easiest ways to get your enemy to put their guard down.

Then I step back and shut my mouth and wait for one of the wide-eyed judges to speak. Finally, a tall one in the middle shakes his head and says, his voice surprised and amazed, "You may go, Miss Griffin." And I leave.

**A/N- **

**Wow. I just started writing that with one thing in mind, and then I competlely just finished it in a totally different place from where I had intended, but I think that it still works. In all reality, I was kind of going for having Prynce partner up with her, but that would've been too clean and perfect in my opinion. Now, you get a guy who she hates and can't trust at all, not to mention the fact that he has a giant target on his back from the Capitol. I think that it livens things up a bit, don't you? And honestly, I have a very particular scene in mind that involves Gaston and Alessia (No romance at all, so don't even think about it), and it wouldn't have worked without them in an alliance. **

**So, now that that's all explained, I have nothing else to say other than please, please, please review. It seriously makes my day when you do. **

**~bballgirl32~**


	6. Chapter 7

When I get back to the top floor of the remake center, everyone is talking easily in the sitting room, a sharp contrast to the mood this morning. Dylan is grinning and pantomiming stabbing something with a sword, while Brutus talks about how brilliant his tribute is. Lyme is in the process of shaking her head at something that they're doing when I walk in.

That's when everything goes dead quiet. Dylan looks at his feet. Brutus is suddenly very interested in his hands. And Lyme is staring at me, hard. I bite my tongue against cussing Dylan out, clench my fists to keep myself from going over to him and punching him until he's nothing more than a bloody pulp.

Then I smile brightly. That breaks the tension in the room enough for Lyme to force a tight smile and ask me how it went.

I jump up and down and squeal. It may be a complete waste to act like a moron now, seeing as if Brutus didn't know everything before I pissed Dylan off, he probably does now, but I still do it anyway. I guess there's always a chance that someone may be watching. Besides, it helps me to stay in character.

"Amazing! I bet you that I got a twelve!"

She harrumphs, apparently not thinking that playing our game is a complete waste, either. "Now, I know that you're confident Alessia, but be reasonable here."

"Ooh, but you should have seen my swording."

"Swording?" she asks, her eyes widened in horror. I manage not to laugh, but Dylan starts coughing into his hands, the corners of his lips turned up into what looks a hell of a lot like a real smile. Then he catches me looking and his face goes blank again.

"Yes. I decided that it was my best shot at a good score. Even Prynce told me how good I was."

"Well. That's…. nice," Lyme says.

"Very nice," Dylan adds with another cough. "I'm glad you think so," I say with a grin. Then I return to my room to shower quickly before it's time to eat.

Supper is a somewhat awkward affair. When I get back to the dining room, the stylists have both arrived. Dylan's is an awkwardly proportioned woman with long arms and short little legs, kind of giving her the appearance of a gorilla. She doesn't say anything the whole meal, just sits there and eats carefully proportioned squares of food while Medea spends the entire time talkin about how much time she has spent on my dress for the interviews tomorrow. The rest of us just listen, not quite sure what to say or do.

Once we're all finished eating, Caddie ushers us back to the sitting room. I settle into one of the big comfy chairs and start fidgeting around in my seat as they go through the introductions. Then they start showing the scores.

Prynce gets a Nine and the girl from One gets a seven. Then Dylan's score comes up. A ten. He pumps his fist and starts bragging about his swordplay again while I hold my breath.

Then my picture comes up, and I get a seven. I exhale in relief while Brutus's eyes get so big that I know Dylan hasn't told him anything. Lyme raises an eyebrow, and I shrug my shoulders, but I can't help but smile even wider at the look on their faces.

The rest of the scores are pretty predictable. Gaston's smirking face flashes with an eleven over it and Dylan curses the 'damn rebel' for a good ten minutes afterwards. The girl from Nine who I noted for her beauty on the first day gets a six. Byre gets a nine, and the girl from twelve who I helped with the knives gets a five.

When the last of the scores have shown, I peal off a congratulations to Dylan, give Lyme and Caddie hugs, then head back to my room. I guess I must have been running on adrenaline all day because I'm out the second that my head hits the pillow. A dangerous face with eyes dark as midnight and a jagged white scar haunts my dreams.

The next morning, Caddie's chirping wakeup call seems a lot more foreboding than it has any right to. I haven't really been thinking about how many days are left until the Games start, but now I realize that the next time I wake up, I'm going to be shipped off into the arena. In just over twenty four hours time, I could possibly be dead.

Forcing those thoughts out of my head, I get up and hurry out to breakfast. Lyme is the only one at the table when I get there. She's smiling and looks truly pleased about something.

"You had a very good score last night," she says pleasantly. "I didn't think you could use any weapons."

"I can't. I just talked," I tell her. "I didn't give them anything they could take away from me, but instead just gave them a general outline of my education. I guess they were impressed."

"Clearly. In fact, I am, too," she says. Then her smile fades and her face hardens. She's ready to get down to business. "Now, enough about that. We have some things to discuss."

"Like my partnership with Gaston Demers?" I ask somewhat bitterly.

She nods, but she must've talked with Finnick because she doesn't sound too surprised at all.

"Yes. I believe that we might as well start there. You can begin my telling me how exactly you managed to convince him to become your ally."

"Honestly? I didn't say a word. I didn't _want _him as an ally."

She looks confused.

"What-"

"After Dylan thought I stabbed him in the back, he went and told Gaston the truth."

Her grip on her coffee mug tightens until her knuckles turn white.

"I suppose I could have expected that, but what is the problem with Gaston as your partner?"

"You don't know him. He's a brutal, lying rebel. He'll kill me in my sleep. Whatever Finnick has told you about him isn't true! He's too smart, too fast and strong. Lyme, he's the deadliest tribute in this Games, and I'm supposed to work with him!"

She looks me straight in the eye.

"So you don't trust him. I'm taking it that he blackmailed you into this alliance."

"Obviously."

Lyme smiles.

"Good. Now, enough about that." I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand. "No arguing. Complaining won't do anything, and I have faith that Gaston can truly help you. On a more pressing note, we need to work on your attitude for your interview."

"Work? I think that I know how to sound stupid."

"You may be able to convince scared tributes who aren't paying attention, but mentors keep an eye out for ruses, and if they see an obvious one, they'll figure that you have something worth hiding. Brutus is somewhat suspicious, and the only reason that he hasn't figured you out is because your brother is keeping his mouth shut."

"Okay, I get it, but my acting's better than that, isn't it?"

"No, it's not. Your dislike for… foolish people is clear if someone is watching you closely. You look more like someone mocking a brainless fool than an actual brainless fool."

"And what am I going to do about that? Turn stupid?"

"No, the opposite. Don't say the dumbest thing that comes to mind. Say something that a person would say, just not an intelligent person. If she asks you your favorite hobby, don't tell them that you like looking at yourself in the mirror,-"

"I wouldn't-"

"-Tell them that you enjoy fashion. If they ask about your brother, don't act like you hero-worship him or think that he's scary, say something real. Say that you love him and don't want to lose him, but make it simple, without big words."

"Alright, I get it."

"Oh no. It's going to be my job to say when you get it."

After that, I sit at the breakfast table for nearly two hours answering question after question just _perfectly_. And if Lyme doesn't think that they're perfect, she spends ten minutes drilling into me about what I _should _have said, then asks another fifty questions.

I have a horrible headache by the time that she finally declares that I'm good enough. That doesn't mean that I'm done by any means, though. No, of course not. Instead of going back to my room to sleep, she calls in Caddie and I'm taken off to a different room.

The moment I get there, she commands me to change into an enormous, sickeningly sparkly gown with a five foot train, and hands me heels that could poke someone's eye out. I swear that they're half a foot high, and that is not a good thing.

"Oh, come on," she scolds when she sees me struggling to stand. "Haven't you ever worn heels before?"

"No, no, I haven't," I tell her, doing my best to sound airy and friendly. "They aren't in fashion in District Two. Besides, I'm much, much too tall."

And I am. Too tall. Too willowy. Too uncoordinated. It's like planting a beanstalk on a tiny wooden pole. It's bound to topple over. Like me.

Yes, I fall. A lot. The heels get caught in the train of the dress with every step that I take, but whenever I try to lift my dress even a little bit off the ground, you'd think that I've assassinated President Snow, the way that Caddie reacts. Then when I put the hem of the dress down and end up falling over, she just stands there and clucks her tongue without even considering helping me up.

I use every ounce of acting that I've learned these last few days to keep my smile on my face, because if I had to pick a way to spend what could be my last day ever, it would not be like this.

"No, no, no," Caddie scolds. Again. "You look like you are ready to fall." That's because I am ready to fall.

"At least I'm not actually falling," I giggle. I sound hysterical.

"This is not a laughing matter!" Caddie snaps, her bright wig bobbing up and down on her head. "Now, do another lap. You will get the hang of it."

So I go again. And again. And again…. And again. Well, you get the idea. When Caddie finally harrumphs and says that I'm not going to get any better, I collapse onto a chair, sure that I'm done.

I'm not. I spend another hour with her telling me that I slouch, that my shoulders are never back far enough, that I need to hold my chin higher, and that I fidget too much. She sounds so much like my mother that if she wasn't so annoying I'd probably be crying.

Then, just as I'm thinking that I'm finally done, I make the dumbest mistake of my life. I bite my lip. Like my mother has said a million times, that is _not _becoming. Only instead of saying it in a sophisticated voice like my mom always has, Caddie goes into a heated rant about how humiliated _she _will be if I do that on stage tonight, and how unladylike it is, and a million other things that are wrong with it.

If I had a knife, it would be through her throat. As it is, my heels are starting to look like very good makeshift weapons. I'm just thinking about taking one off and sticking it into her jugular when she stops and asks me if I understand everything that she has told me.

I nod furiously. "Yes, yes. Everything. I get _absolutely everything_."

"Good. Now, we are almost done."

"Almost?"

"Oh, yes. There is just a little bit more. It's great fun, though."

So I stay there for another half hour and learn how to smile properly, and then how to talk in the right manner. Thankfully she declares that my smile (my stupid cheesy one) is positively endearing in the first place, so I don't have to work on that much at all. It's the talking that she spends most of the time on. I don't look people in the eye well enough. I apparently mumble too much, and I talk too fast most of the time.

By the time that she has all of those problems worked out, I have exactly ten minutes before I'm supposed to meet with my prep team. No nap, no lunch, nothing. Instead, I'm whisked off, pounding head and all, to the room where they worked on me before.

Bianca smiles gently when I walk in, and for a moment I'm relieved to have at least an hour of just sitting. Then Caius and Hermia get going and I find myself wishing for my heels back. Not to wear them, clearly, but I think that they'd look very good on Caius and Hermia. As in, stuck out of their heads.

I will admit, though, that it is better than my time with Caddie.

Actually, after Bianca snaps at the other two that she's trying to concentrate on my hair, they tone down the volume a little, and I manage to close my eyes and doze off for a few moments while they paint my nails and Bianca takes the time to straighten my hair.

Then Bianca is shaking me awake, and Medea is there a moment later, and I have to drag myself out of the chair. Bianca gives me a sweet smile and whispers, "Good luck." Then she's gone and Medea starts in on me.

It's not as bad as the last time, I suppose. First she spends a very long time on my neck, meticulously applying makeup to cover the dark bruises on my neck without being too obvious about it. She actually does a decent job with it, and by the time that she's finished, I can hardly see them at all.

Then, instead of completely turning me into a statue, she settles for spraying shimmering silver glitter all over my body. I guess she doesn't put it on that thick, but it still itches terribly. My hand keeps twitching up to wipe the stuff off my face, but Medea catches me every time and shoots me a fierce glare.

Other than on my neck, the only makeup that she really uses is on my eyes and lips. She shades my lids and most of the surrounding area a sparkling silver, accenting that with intricate dark gray patterns that take over a half hour to complete and that test my patience to the max. When that is _finally _finished, she stains my lips the same silver color as my eyes, which looks ridiculously unnatural, but it isn't like I can say anything.

Then she tells me to stand up and close my eyes. A moment later, I feel a cool, liquid-like material brush against my skin. The fabric tightens around my chest and waist as I hear her zip it up, but it's still unbelievably light and silky. I start to open my eyes to see what it looks like, but Medea scolds me furiously, saying that I'm not done yet.

So, I wait another ten minutes while she sets something (a tiara, maybe?) on my head, and adjusts my hair to suit it properly. Then she has me step into a pair of heels, which are, like Caddie's, ridiculously high. I teeter for a moment before I catch my balance. She scolds me for that too, snapping about how clumsy I am while she reaches around me and fastens a heavy necklace around my neck.

After that, she let's me open my eyes.

I let out a soft gasp the moment that I see myself. Beautiful wouldn't be the right word… dazzling. That's it. Light refracts off of my skin with every little movement that I make. My eyes seem to shine, the sparkling makeup surrounding them adding to that effect. Even my smile seems to be made out of diamonds because of my lips, and the effect really isn't all that terrible once everything is put together.

My long red hair falls in glistening sheets down my back, the fiery color a sharp contrast to the shades of gray and silver that make up the rest of the ensemble. A shining tiara, which looks a heck of a lot like it's made out of graphite, sits on top of my head. The necklace around my neck has a base the same color as the tiara, inlaid with an onyx the size of a quarter.

But most amazing, surprisingly, is the dress. It's flowing material is a dozen different shades of gray, from nearly black to bright silver, all streaked together like it was a chunk of graphite, but more shimmery, more beautiful. The back is a little too low, and I don't appreciate that it's strapless, but I will admit that isn't too horrible.

I actually even look a little bit scary. Not that anybody else but myself would think that, but my appearance is inhuman enough that it is kind of frightening, in a way.

"Wonderful," Medea says.

"Thanks," I mutter, trying to smile like a ditz. I don't do very well, but Medea hardly even notices, she's too busy fussing over me like a seven year old with a toy doll.

Finally Caddie pokes her head into the room and tells me to come with her, and I hobble after her on my heels. We meet a terrifyingly roguish looking Dylan, along with Brutus and Lyme, in front of the elevator. Again, Dylan doesn't even look at me.

"Ready?" Lyme asks. I nod, and the five of us get into the elevator. Everyone is strangely quiet, even Caddie, which has to be a first. I guess that she feels the tension. It'd be pretty hard to miss it, I guess.

Once the elevator opens, Caddie and our mentors are led off to a special seating section while an attendant ushers Dylan and I over to our places on stage. He dumps us off, giving us explicit orders not to move, then leaves.

Dylan scoots as far away from me as possible. On the other hand, Gaston leans forward and shoots me a lazy grin from his spot a few chairs down. I send him a cheesy smile in response, shivering as I do so. He's terrifying.

His stylist was clearly playing on his dark good looks because he's dressed in black from head to toe. The strange light from the setting sun makes him even scarier, covering most of him in shadow while somehow causing his jagged white scar to stand out even more.

I can't believe that my life is going to be in this guy's hands by tomorrow morning. The thought makes me sick.

"Whore," Dylan mutters. I realize that I was staring at Gaston and look away, a blush rising in my cheeks.

"Like you think that's a bad thing," I shoot back at my brother. He opens his mouth to make another retort, but then a voice shouts that we're starting, and Caesar starts talking a moment later.

In no time at all, the two tributes from District One have gone, the girl shy and quiet, Prynce getting the entire crowd wrapped around his enormous finger with one friendly smile.

"Now, let's give a warm welcome to District Two's female tribute, Alessia Griffin!" Caesar booms, and I warily pick my way to center stage, teetering dangerously on my heels. I can almost feel Caddie cringing.

"So, Alessia, I'd say that the crowd is extra interested in this interview. Your mother a victor, and your brother in the Games. How do you feel about that?"

I force my smile to turn wistful.

"Well, it's kind of good and kind of bad, you know. I mean, coming to the Capitol has been totally amazing. The clothes, the food, all of the attention…" I shake my head, like I just can't comprehend how brilliant it all is. "It's awesome. And I'm soooo excited to get in the arena tomorrow, too. I love all of this and everything is so close to being perfect…"

"But?" Caesar prompts gently.

"But I love my big brother to bits, and coming home without him is going to be so horrible."

Caesar pats my back consolingly before asking, "So you think that you will get back to District Two?"

"Why, of course," I say, like I'm shocked that he'd thought anything different. "I am Drina Griffin's daughter, after all."

He chuckles.

"Yes, but Dylan is her son," he says.

"Oh, but my mother picked me over him. She said that she knows I can win, and gave me permission to kill him if I needed to."

I cringe, thinking of how that's going to go over at home, but it was necessary if I wanted as many sponsors as possible. My mother's opinion is key, and now that everyone knows I have her approval, they'll have to at least consider me.

"Really?" Caesar asks, clearly surprised. "And is there a reason for this, or did she just choose you because of your infectious smile?"

I flash one of the very smiles that he mentioned.

"Well, I _have _always been her favorite," I answer. "And can you blame her? Dylan doesn't smile nearly enough."

"Yes, you do seem much more… cheerful than him," Caesar says, flashing Dylan a nervous glance.

"Of course. He's just like that. We all love him anyway, though." Not.

"Ah, isn't that just adorable?" Caesar asks the crowd. They all make appropriate gushy noises, and then Caesar looks back at me when they quiet down. "Now, what do you think would happen if you happened to run into your brother in the arena?"

I shake my head sadly, not having to fake my fear of that very thing happening.

"Honestly, Caesar, I would kill him. Love only goes so far in the arena."

Then the buzzer goes off, Caesar tells the crowd to give me a hand, and I hobble back to my seat as quickly as I can in my six foot high heels.

I hold my breath through Dylan's interview, sure that he's going to sell me out to the rest of the tributes, but he shrugs off any questions about me in favor of discussing how much he can bench. Even so, I'm still relieved when his buzzer goes off and he has to sit back down.

The District Three interviews go by quickly, as does the girl's from Four. Then Gaston steps up and starts chatting about girls and working on boats in District Four, and then Caesar asks him if he has anything motivating him to get back home.

This dangerous look flashes in his eyes, then, and I know that he's going to say something terrible.

"Actually, Caesar. I do have a motivation for getting back home," he says in his rough, but soft voice. Then he turns and addresses the crowd. "Do y'all want to know what that motivation is?"

They scream in the affirmative.

Gaston puts a deadly smirk on his face and opens his mouth to speak. I feel my heart constrict, knowing that if he gets himself in trouble, I'm dead, too.

"It's the thought of killing the motherfucker who killed my father," he shouts. The crowd goes completely silent, and then Gaston lets out a boisterous laugh, his voice softening again. "Y'all wouldn't know who he is. Some moron who's been rotting away in a cell for years. I bet if I get back, I'll have the influence to put him out of his misery."

Then the buzzer goes off and Caesar tries to calm down the stunned crowd, and I'm even more stunned because I'm not stupid, and I know that Gaston added that last part to save his own skin. H wasn't threatening some poor guy in a cell. No. If his history is anything like Dylan told me, my ally just threatened to kill President Snow.

Suddenly, he scares me a heck of a lot more than he ever has before.

None of the other interviews make half as much impact as Gaston's did. They're all the normal static ones that I see every year on television. They're finished in what feels like minutes, and all of the tributes head back to their rooms. My head keeps buzzing with worries about what Gaston's interview is going to mean for me, about what in the hell is going to happen tomorrow morning, and if all of my training is going to make an ounce of difference against twenty three other teenagers who actually know how to use dangerous weapons.

"Calm down, Alessia," I mutter to myself as I peel off the fancy gown. "Worrying isn't helping anything."

Neither is talking to myself, but I'm not even going to go there.

Once I wrestle out of my dress, I take a quick shower. Afterwards, Lyme invites me to come watch the interviews, but I decline. Seeing them once was enough for me.

Instead, I try to get a little bit of extra sleep, but after an hour of tossing and turning I accept that there's no way I'm going to fall asleep yet. I mess around with all of the gadgets in my room for another hour, but that really isn't very exciting, so I slip out of the room and start wandering the halls. I can hear Brutus's heavy snoring come from his room, and Lyme pacing back and forth in hers.

I keep ambling along, listening to the muttering coming from Dylan's room, looking out a window at the Capitol every once in a while, seeing the people parading through the streets, partying for us. Then there's no where else to wander, and I'm forced to return to my room.

When I get back, I'm tired enough to slip into an uneasy sleep.

Then, just hours after I close my eyes, Medea is shaking me awake, telling me that it's time to get up, that we have to get to the arena so I can change. I take a shaky breath and let her lead me to the elevator, and then onto the roof. I take the time to look down on the Capitol, to notice how beautiful the pink sky is, how good the cool morning air feels, how bright and vibrant the buildings of the Capitol are, because there is a very good chance that this could be the last time that I can really enjoy any of those things.

I shake my head against that thought as a hovercraft appears seemingly out of nowhere. I'm not going to die. I won't let myself die.

A ladder drops down in front of me, and Medea instructs me to grab onto it. When I do, I'm frozen in place as the ladder is retracted back into the bottom of the hovercraft.

A woman in pristine white garments injects something into my arm, explaining to me that it's a tracker to make sure that the Gamemakers don't lose us. I can't help but think that it could also be used so that tributes like Gaston don't escape.

The woman leaves once the tracker is injected, and I'm released from the ladder. Medea is retrieved from the roof a moment later, and then a servant wordlessly gestures us into another room. There's a table with an enormous breakfast spread across it, but I stop eating after I choke down half a muffin. I'm too naseous to hold anything else.

Once I'm finished eating, I wander over to one of the large windows and look down at the gleaming Capitol, see people bustling through the streets, unconcerned that I'm being shipped off to die. Maybe even excited about it.

I should care. I should be mad at them. But the Games are something that people just shouldn't question, and it's not like worrying about it would make any difference anyway. So I just watch the people, not caring what they are or are not doing. Eventually, the buildings and crowds fade into a beautiful wildness. I take in every square inch of the towering trees, the sparkling streams and majestic mountains just incase I do happen to die. I want to remember the world at its best before I'm forced to see it at its worst.

After three hours or so, the windows go black, and I jump backwards in surprise.

"It means we're nearing the arena," Medea says. Five minutes later, the hovercraft lowers itself to the ground. My heart starts pounding against my ribcage, and my hands clench themselves into tight fists.

Medea leads me back to the ladder, and this time it lowers us underground, into the catacombs beneath the arena. We follow instructions to the chamber where I will be prepped for the Games. The last place I will see before I enter the arena.

I've heard some people in District 2 refer to it as the stockyard. A place where animals go for slaughter. I had always thought that they were being melodramatic, but now I understand the nickname more than any of them ever will. I can feel the real and true terror that no one will ever comprehend unless they are faced with the knowledge of their more or less imminent death.

Thankfully Medea jerks me out of those thoughts with a simple command to shower. I do so quickly, then relax as much as I am able while Medea braids back my long hair. Then the clothes arrive.

A somewhat loose pale green tank top made of a cool, stretchy fabric. Fitted tawny shorts made out of the same material. A hooded dark green raincoat that goes halfway to my knees. A thick black belt. For shoes, we're given sturdily built brown boots with very, very good traction.

It's comfortable, but wouldn't provide any protection from the cold, so the arena is going to have to be hot. The raincoat suggests a lot of moisture. But what about the boots?

My wondering ceases the moment that a voice announces that it's time to launch. I take a shaky breath and step forward onto the platform that will raise me into the arena. Medea watches me carefully, not smiling, but not looking particularly upset either. I force a smile in her direction as the ground rises beneath me, and I'm lifted up into the arena.

**A/N-**

**Wow. Huge chapter, but she's finally in the arena. Now is when the real action starts. **

**Other than that, thanks for the reviews, and please keep telling me what you think. I love all you guys. **

**~bballgirl32~**


	7. Chapter 8

The first thing that pops into my head is that I must be in the wrong place, that there's no way I'm standing in an arena for the Hunger Games. Everything is too beautiful, too perfect. The tributes are all gathered in a circle around a pristine white beach. In front of me are big, gently sloping mountains, green with an abundance of plants and trees. Behind me I can hear waves gently lapping up onto the beach, and when I turn I see a bright turquoise bay with a stretch of flat, forest-covered land curving around the other side of it.

The weather is even better, warm and sunny without a cloud in the sky. Birds are chirping happily all around us, and out of the corner of my eye I see a beautiful gray dolphin poking its head out of the water, watching us all intently.

I can't help but spend a few seconds longer than necessary looking around, taking it all in. Then I remember where I'm at, and I focus on what I should do when the gong sounds. The cornucopia is out of the question. I would get myself killed trying to run there. But where should I go? I'll need to meet up with Gaston sometime. Although, now that I think about it, I could just run away from him…. I shake the idea off. I'll die without someone to help me out.

Surely he's going to head to the cornucopia first. It'd be dumb of him not to. But when he gets out, where will he go? I look at him, and then relax. He'd been watching me, waiting to say. His eyes flash to the waves behind me, and he gives me a questioning look. I look back hesitantly. I've never swam in my life. I shake my head. He grits his teeth, and I can see that I've pissed him off, but then he jabs his thumb towards the trees to the right of me. They're only twenty or so yards deep before they raise up into the mountains, but if I can find a place to hide myself, it would be possible to wait there until Gaston is done working at the cornucopia.

I nod, and he looks away from me, focusing all of his attention on the plethora of weapons and supplies overflowing from the mouth of the cornucopia.

A moment later, the gong sounds, and I take off towards the little bunch of trees that Gaston had pointed out. I'm not extremely fast in the first place, but running on the sand makes it feel like I'm going in slow motion. I swear that I'm not getting anywhere, half expect to find a knife in my back at any moment, but I can't hear anyone chasing me, and the trees are getting closer and closer.

As I approach the trees, my steps become more hesitant. The closer I get, the louder everything else gets. Some type of bugs are clicking rather loudly, _something _is screeching its head off, and the chirps of the birds start getting covered up by shrill cries and ominous squawks that have to be coming from some pretty big birds.

I don't know much about animals, especially not jungle ones. I got some basic, common sense training, but I have no idea if those clicking bugs have pincers that can tear through flesh, or if I'll end up getting mauled by a flock of monster birds the second that I step into the trees. Biting my lip, I look behind me, knowing that I have to make a decision, and quick.

That's when I see the white sand dyed crimson. That's when I notice the screaming and yelling and clashing of metal ringing above the animals in the forest. And that's when I notice the body flying towards me with a sword in one hand. My eyes are wide, and I just know that I'm through because I'm slow and unarmed, and really I have no chance.

"Are you stupid? Start running!"

That's when I notice that it's Gaston. I relax and start towards the forest, but he must think that I'm going too slow because when he catches up to me, I'm flung over his shoulder like I'm nothing more than a rag doll. My face is shoved into the enormous pack that he managed to grab, and one of my arms is twisted at an awkward angle, but something tells me that complaining wouldn't be a very good idea, so I keep my mouth shut as he runs fearlessly into the noisy jungle.

Black eyed monkeys stare at us ominously. Bright spots of electric blue and blood red pop out on the tree trunks, and even I know that those lizards have got to be terribly poisonous. I see three foot tall birds with plumage of every color looking down at us from high up branches, and brightly colored birds smaller than a fist whizzing through the sky. There are bugs, too. Everywhere. Mosquitoes, bright blue butterflies the size of my face, tiny little black things that I can hardly see, and dozens of other species crawling and flying and buzzing around everywhere.

Gaston stops just in front of the nearest mountainnot a minute after he started sprinting, and roughly shakes me off his back and onto my feet. He's panting slightly, and for the first time I notice the blood staining the side of his shirt, the fabric already sliced through pretty good.

"You're hurt," I comment. He shakes it off.

"Just a shallow cut," he pants. "Now, we've got to find some place to get everything sorted out, far away from here. There'll be at least one freshwater stream somewhere in here, I saw a tributary running into that bay, but that was coming from the other half of the arena. It wouldn't be twenty minutes to swim across, but seeing as you can't swim…"

"Don't complain. You forced me into this. Besides, it can't be much more than three miles or so to just go around."

"But the problem is how many other people are going to be doing the same thing. And when the Careers go hunting tonight, they aren't going to go up the mountain. That'll be too much work. They'll scour every scare inch of this part of the forest. We may get a ways ahead of them if we hurry, but it'll still be dangerous."

"So what are you saying? That since I can't swim-"

"We either wait until night and try to sneak right past the Careers and swim across the bay-"

"Or we go up the mountain," I finish dryly.

"Right," he said. "And I'm leaning towards climbing the mountain. It'll give us a nice vantage point, and I doubt many tributes will be going up there, so you, Miss Supergenius, can make up some brilliant plan to wipe everyone out without any interference."

"Alright, but there's just one problem-"

"We don't know if there's any water up there. I know. But the thing is, there should be. It's a part of the arena, they know that some tributes will go there. No one likes to watch us die of thirst. It's too boring."

"Are you sure? Because I'm not in that good of shape, and I really don't want to scale that thing only to end up dying because of thirst once I get up there."

He laughs like that's the funniest thing that he's heard in a long time.

"No, I'm not sure, but don't you think that taking the chance is better than sitting around here and waiting for someone to kill us? I'd bet that there are already a half a dozen tributes who are listening to us already, and I'd love to get out of here before some of the ones who managed to get weapons stop in.

I freeze, my eyes scanning the tightly packed trees. I don't see anyone, but that isn't surprising in these trees. Gaston is probably right, though. We're so closed to the cornucopia that anyone who took the easiest escape route could be listening in on our conversation. It's doubtful that any of them managed to snag any weapons, but the thought still makes my skin crawl.

"You're right. We should get going." I look over at the mountainrising up in front of us. The slope is extremely steep, and it's so packed with trees that I doubt we'll be able to force our way through most of it. "But how are we going to get up there?"

"Like this," said Gaston, reaching up and gripping tightly onto the base of one of the trees and using it to brace himself with, he takes long, lunge-like steps until he reaches the top of the tree, where he then picks another one to pull himself with. He makes it look easy, despite the enormous pack he had grabbed, and the sword sticking awkwardly out of his belt.

I'm skeptical that it will be quite that effortless for me, and I'm right. My legs are so gangly that even with my grip on a tree trunk, I still stumble the entire way to the next one. The grass is inconveniently thick, so it's not entirely my fault, but I'm still going about half the speed that Gaston is, while putting forth twice the effort.

Every five feet seems like five miles. By time we're thirty feet up the slope, my knees are scraped and muddy, my hands are in terrible condition, and my arms and legs are shaking from the effort of pulling myself up. Gaston is so far ahead of me that he's completely stopped climbing, and has instead reclined himself against a tree, smirking down at me with an extremely amused look on his face.

I huff out an exasperated breath, then reach a tired arm up to grab onto the next tree. My fingers close around the cool trunk, and I start slipping up the slope towards the next trunk. The trees stop about five yards ahead of us, and I assume that it'll round off from there. Or at least hoping that there'll be a place to take a break.

Once I finally manage to struggle my way up to that point, however, I have to let out an exasperated groan. There's still another thirty feet left, but the trees have thinned out to the point where there are only a few left, scattered around the top of the mountain.

"You live around mountains," Gaston says from his perch on his tree. "So tell me, is that natural?"

I gasp in enough air to speak. "I. Don't. Know. Different. Mountains."

He shrugs, but he's smiling.

"I figured that, but I had to check. Now, do you know how we're going to make it the rest of the way up?"

I look at the steep, grassy slope. Nothing to really hang on to, other than a few scattered shrubs, but those wouldn't hold much weight. I close my eyes and think for a moment. How could we possibly….

Then I smile. I've got it.

"What's in your bag?" I ask Gaston breathlessly.

He shrugs.

"I dunno. I haven't checked. I guess I threw a few knives and a couple other smaller packets in there before I took off, but that's it. Why, you think there's mountain climbing gear?"

I snort.

"No, I don't. I would like to see your knives, though." He makes a face, then awkwardly rips his pack off before propping it up in front of him.

"Alright, how many do you need?"

"One, for now," I say. "I want to test something before you take out anymore."

He shrugs, then digs in his pack until he produces a hunting lift with a blade about a foot long. Clinging tightly to the tree that I'm resting on, I shakily kneel in the damp grass, then hold out my hand for the knife. He hands it to me, and I jab it into the ground with as much force as I can. All but the tip of the hilt disappears beneath the grass as the blade sinks deep into the soft ground. I gingerly unwrap my arm from around the tree, so that the blade is all that's supporting me. It shifts slightly, but doesn't cut through the ground.

"How many knives did you get?" I ask him.

"Other than that one? Two. Although I may have more somewhere in all of those packs. Why?"

"Because, I know what we can do. I think. Can I have another knife?"

He still looks skeptical, but hands me another one, slightly shorter than the first. Keeping the first knife in the ground, I lunge forward and stab the second one into the ground a few feet in front of me just as I pull the first one out. Then I use that one to help brace me before stabbing the first knife back into the ground. I could pull myself up the entire slope like that.

I cautiously shimmy backwards a few feet until I'm back at my tree so I can see what Gaston thinks.

"So?" I ask.

"It'll take a long time your way," he drawls. "And I'd need to dig through all of my crap to find another knife, which isn't exactly easy at the moment. But the idea is good. We'll just need to tweak it slightly."

"Tweak it?" I ask. "How?"

He smirks as he zips up his pack.

"Can I have those knives?" I give them to him. "Alright," he continues, sticking the knives in his belt. "Now, jump over here."

"Jump over there? Why?" I ask. He sighs.

"Just do it, Griffin."

There's really no reason for me not to do it. I doubt that he's just going to randomly kill me now, after taking up all that time waiting for me to get up the first part of the mountain. So, making sure that my feet are in the right place, I jump over to his tree. For a second I'm sure that I'm going to fall, but then his hand is around my wrist, and he pulls me up so that I can wrap an arm around the thin trunk for support.

"That was pathetic," he comments.

"Did you expect any different?" I ask him.

He laughs. A deep, real laugh without any bitterness whatsoever. I'm surprised, but then again, I guess I shouldn't be. This would be the type of place where someone like him would just let loose. I mean, if a psychotic rebel isn't happy in the Hunger Games, when would he be happy?

"After watching you 'climb' the first part of this, I suppose I shouldn't have," he answers. "Now, hold onto that tree tight. I'm going to give you my pack, and it's kind of heavy. If you fall, I loose a lot of valuable supplies."

"Uh, are you sure you want to give me that?" I ask warily. He snorts.

"No, I'm not. But right now, it's our best bet to get up this damn mountain. Now take it." Then, without giving me much chance to complain, he grabs my right arm and throws the strap over it, then peels my left arm off the tree and does the same thing, his free arm supporting all of the weight.

Then, when I'm hugging the tree again, he lets go.

I let out a low grunt and nearly stumble backwards. He said it was heavy. I say that if I had a choice between starving to death and lugging the thing around, I would pick starving.

"What do you actually expect me to do with this thing on my back?" I ask. He smirks.

"Jump on mine. Or, actually, don't try to jump." He fidgets around the tree trunk, then crouches slightly in front of me. "Now wrap your arms around my neck, and your legs around my waist. Tightly, too. This is going to be hard enough without worrying about you falling off."

"Wait, you're going to-"

"You go too slow. We need a shelter by nightfall, and there's no saying what's going to be over this mountain, anyway. We may need to climb two or three more before the day is over, so, it's in my interest to get this done in five minutes as opposed to half an hour."

I get on cautiously as I say, "But you can't possibly-"

"Watch me," he interrupts. Then he takes the knives out of his pocket and launches himself forward. I grip him tightly enough that I worry about chocking him, sure that we're going to fall, but he stabs both knives into the ground at once, then pushes himself off the ground with a loud grunt.

He doesn't get very far into the air, and really doesn't even get much distance at all out of each jump, but he does make a lot quicker progress than I would have done on my own. I actually have doubts that I could have made it the entire way up with how tired I already was.

Gaston, though, gets himself to the very top of the mountain inside of ten minutes. He crouches down for me to get off, then staggers a few steps before taking the pack off of my back and throwing it back over his shoulders. Then he takes a few steps forward so that he can see what's in front of us. I follow closely behind, then start laughing when I see what's sprawled out in front of us. It's so perfect that I consider being thankful that I'm in the Hunger Games, just because I wouldn't have gotten the chance to see such a beautiful sight otherwise.

There are still moderately steep mountains, but nothing like what we just climbed over. After a half mile or so, the mountains taper off into moderately steep hills, completely covered in thick trees. Winding through the mountains and trees are several narrow winding rivers, completely covered in places, but all ending at another perfect white beach nearly identical to where we started.

For a moment, both of us our silent, just taking the whole sight in. Then I remember where we are, and I force myself to start thinking again.

"An island, maybe five or six miles across. Most of the tributes are within the first three mile radius. The ones that do decide to climb the mountain will all be fully within our sight if we stay up here. However, they can see us sooner than we could see them. Dylan was a whiz with arrows, so he could probably hit us from the top of the tree line without us even seeing him. That tells us that despite the convenient vantage point, we should keep moving."

"Or you could just figure that we need water," Gaston says. I shrug.

"Right now I'm looking at it from the angle that'll help us take out the most tributes. Here would be decent. In the middle of everything, and with a very good view of everything else. The only problems are the lack of hiding places, and the fact that we need water. If we could find a good shelter some place close to here, though we should use it. Although, I'm kind of worried about staying over here."

"Why?" he asks.

"Because, it's so secluded. I mean, very few tributes would actually climb this mountain. Very few _could _climb this mountain. And yet, almost half the arena is past it. Say that we go over there and hide out for a while, when all of the remaining tributes are still on the other side, over a mile away from us. That'd be too easy for us. If we hide out on this side of the mountains for more than a day, and no one else decides to climb over, then there is a very good chance that we're going to get flushed out, possibly killed."

"Alright. So you want us to go back over. That's fine. We'll spend the night, then get to hiking again, if you really think that we'll get chased out anyway."

"No, I don't like that idea very much," I say, biting my lip as I think. "I like it over here, and there are good water sources, not to mention a lot more to work with if you want some enormous deadly trap."

"But you said-"

"I said that we would have problems if the other tributes stayed away." I pause for a moment, trying to refine the idea that is slowly forming in my head. Gaston starts to speak, but I hold up my hand and he shuts his mouth. I start talking again a few minutes later, sure of what I want to do. "How good are you at starting fires?" I ask him.

"Not bad. And I'm sure that there has to be matches somewhere in everything that I grabbed. Why?"

"Well, I'm not sure of most of the details, but I'll work on that as soon as we find shelter. What I want to do, though, is bait tributes to come over to this side. A smoking fire will get the Careers over here, thinking that they've found a stupid tribute. That takes care of our lack of tributes problem…."

I trail off as I realize a way to make this so much bigger than just appeasing the crowd. A way to end these Games near instantly.

An enormous smile finds its way onto my face.

"Forget about everything that I've said so far," I tell Gaston, speaking quickly so that I don't loose my idea. "We don't want to lure the Careers over here so that we can stay. That's completely unnecessary. No, we want to lure _everyone _over here. Every. Single. Tribute. That way we just need one big explosion, one homemade acid shower, or maybe a single dose of poisonous gas, and we've taken out all of the competition."

He smirks and shoots me a look that almost looks like approval.

"I like that idea. Although your methods of wiping them out in one big group are shaky at best, crowding them into a single place is actually very, very smart. I'm starting to be thankful that I didn't kill you."

"Good to know. Now we need to find a place to stay so I can think out the details."

"Alright," he says, stretching out slightly. I see him wince a little and remember his side. I'll have to make sure that he gets that taken care of, too. It'd suck to have to go back on my plan if he ended up getting that infected or something. I need his strength if I'm going to keep going with this. "Let's get going."

Then we start off down the hill in search of a place to spend the night.

**A/N- Early update since I've got two other stories to update before I go out of town this weekend, and I don't want to end up posting them all on the same day. I hope everyone likes the arena, and thanks to Cat60041x3, Silver Cat 777, LaffyTraffy76, and brooke13243546. In response to brooke's question, Gaston's dad was taken away by the Capitol, so he blames Snow for it. I think Dylan kind of talks about it in ch.5, but it's only mentioned really briefly. **

**Other than that, thanks for reading and please review. **

**~bballgirl32~ **


	8. Chapter 9

We eventually find a small rock overhang that is boxed in by so many trees that we would have missed it if we hadn't wandered directly into it. It's not perfect, especially considering how little protection it provides for us, but it's so secluded and hard to find that it'd be a hard opportunity to pass up.

Once we agree that the overhang is a good place to stay for now, Gaston dumps his pack on the ground and starts digging through it, tossing out the knives, a few small packs, and then an impressive array of supplies.

He's almost done when he sees me watching and sends me a glare.

"Don't just watch, Griffin," he drawls. You're supposed to be _thinking. _How are we getting those tributes over here, and how are we going to kill them when we do?"

I make a face. "I can't start planning until I know what I have to work with," I say, although my mind had kind of been blank up until that point. At least I came up with a good excuse.

"Of course you do," Gaston says. He doesn't sound convinced, but he still waves his hand over the supplies he's spread out. "Now you can get started."

I bite my lip, my eyes taking everything in. Most of the stuff is useless for any kind of devious planning. Sunglasses, a first-aid kit, a flashlight, more disgusting-looking dried meat and fruit than I'd ever want to eat in my lifetime, three cans of bug spray… things like that. There are six knives. Matches that are virtually useless with all the wet wood around. Spearheads, but no spears. A blanket that is completely unnecessary in the hot weather.

My expression twists to one of disgust, with myself more than anything else. There isn't going to be some giant tribute attracter just sitting in a pack. I'm going to need to think.

If I want the tributes in one place, I have two options. I either give them a reason to come over here, or I think of a way to get them away from the beach and the forest. It would probably be _easier _to attract them, but a lot simpler to flush them out of the forest and into the mountains.

Of course, fire would work, but I don't know how well it would burn here, and starting it would be difficult. It's not _that _wet, though. The raincoats we got suggest that it rains sometimes, but it'd only take a day or so for the fire to spread enough to do what we want it to, and it doesn't look like there's going to be any huge storms soon. Besides, even if the fires don't work, there'll still be smoke, and that's just as deadly if not worse.

Only smoke rises, and that wouldn't encourage them to flee to the mountains. But maybe if we cut off all escape routes…. Yes. Find some way to light a fire all along the coastline. Then the other tributes only option would be to flee upwards through the smoke, or stay and die. It would be perfect.

"I got it," I tell Gaston, smiling broadly. "We force the other tributes over here. Instead of giving them a reason to come here, we take the choice away from them."

He looks up from the supplies that he's been organizing.

"That's wonderful. Now how are we going to do that?"

"We start a fire," I say. Then I tell him about burning the whole coastline to keep them trapped in. "And that means that they'd either have to try to climb through the smoke, or die in the fire," I conclude.

"And if it rains?" he asks. I shrug.

"If it rains, we think of something else."

His eyes focus on the first aid kit he'd been rummaging through, and I can see him thinking. There's really not much to think about, though. All we have to do is burn them all out.

"Okay," he finally says. "We'll stay here tonight so you can fix up my side and I can finish sorting through all the supplies. Tomorrow we'll hike back over and find a hiding place on the other side, get anything ready that needs to be ready. Then, I say we go for it as soon as the sun goes down."

"I guess I don't see anything wrong with that," I answer after thinking it through. Actually, it's a really good idea.

"Great," he says, his attention back on the piles of supplies. I fidget awkwardly for a moment before getting onto my feet and starting to pace. There is absolutely nothing to do. Well, I suppose I could have some conversation with Gaston, but I figure that that wouldn't work any better than it had whenever I tried it with Dylan.

"Could you please stop that?" Gaston snaps at me eventually. I stop and sit down across from him. I want to fire back some kind of sharp retort, but pissing him off isn't going to help my life span at all.

Finally I lean back and close my eyes, hoping for sleep even if it can't be much past seven o'clock. Unfortunately, sleep doesn't come. I flinch at every noise Gaston makes, sure that he's picking up a knife to stab me with. The bugs itch terribly, and the temperature takes a ridiculous plummet as the sun sets.

So, between jerking my eyes open whenever Gaston moves, swatting at bugs, and shivering, I get nowhere near sleep. At least I feel safe. I didn't expect that, but it's so secluded out in the little overhang and despite being a threat himself, having Gaston watching over me takes my mind off of any hunting Careers or man-eating mutts.

If only that would be enough to help me sleep.

I'm not tired, though. I just have nothing to do. Since when have the Hunger Games been so boring?

"You still awake, Sleeping Beauty?" asks Gaston. I peel my eyes open and sit up a little.

"I haven't been asleep. Why?"

"My side is starting to hurt like hell. How're your healing skills?"

"Nonexistent. Worse since it's dark out."

A bright light flashes, illuminating his face in a rather frightening way. I blink for a second, then see the flashlight in his hand.

"Well, put your nonexistent healing skills to work." I start to reach for the flashlight, but he pulls it away. "And by the way, you better not kill me."

"I'm not going to," I say. "I need you to get me back across those mountains before I do anything."

He chuckles, then hands me the flashlight.

"Alright. Just wash it and bandage it or something. It's not deep."

I wait for a moment while he takes off his belt, then his rain jacket, and then his shirt. For a moment I'm somewhat distracted because he isn't exactly skimpy, but then I actually see where he got cut and I can feel the bile rising in my throat.

I'm not good with anything disgusting, and his side is, well, kind of disgusting. All dried blood and sweat and just… gross.

"Um. What do you want me to do with it?" I ask him. He smiles a little with a shake of his head.

"District 2 must be damn sheltered," he says. "In District 4, I've seen fishing accidents where men have lost limbs. And when I was nine, my older brother accidentally slashed my me with a trident."

He shifts, a smirk on his face, and points out three puckered white lines alone the side opposite to his wounded one.

"Cut straight through the skin. Of course, that's nothing compared to-"

"Please stop. I'm going to be sick," I interrupt. "And I'm never going anywhere near District Four."

"District Four?" he asks, laughing. "You'll see worse than that in any district other than One and Two."

I roll my eyes. He's nothing more than a paranoid rebel.

"Yeah, right. You can't know that."

"Except I can. My dad worked for the mayor before he died. He's seen things that you couldn't even imagine. If everything is so perfect, why would all of those tributes from the poor districts be so thin, so _desperate_. Hell, if everything was so perfect, why can't we know? Why don't they just show us everything, Griffin?"

I turn my eyes to the first aid kit, rifle through it with shaking hands.

"If you don't shut up, they're going to kill both of us."

"Another point. If Panem is so great, so mighty and strong, why would the Capitol care if a stupid seventeen year-old boy is talking bad about them?"

"Gaston. Snow knows what he's doing, more than you do," I say quickly. "So just shut up, or we're going to get killed."

He looks at me with a clenched jaw, his eyes unreadable. Then, thankfully, he changes the subject.

"Are you going to clean my side, or do you want me to do it myself?"

I send him a glare, just so he knows how I feel about his stupid words, his irrational thoughts, and then I turn my attention back to the first aid kit.

There's a small bottle of rubbing alcohol, so I take that and put some on a piece of gauze. After what he said, I kind of want it to hurt, but I honestly think that it's harder on me than it is on him. I can hardly even look at it, with all of the rusty looking blood running down his side, staining the gauze bright red, pieces of the skin that's already scabbed over peeling off…

"This is disgusting," I mutter.

"I'll slash you with a sword, if you think that'd be preferable," he snaps. I shut my mouth. Apparently he's mad at me for siding with Snow over the stupid rebels. It's not my fault that he's delusional. Like the Districts are really that bad. Snow wouldn't allow it. I'm not that stupid. Those thin kids from Eleven and Twelve are just from lazy families.

_All of them? _

I dig into his side harder. He doesn't even flinch. I keep cleaning until the dried blood is gone, and then I drop the gauze disgustedly onto the ground before rummaging through the first aid kit and pulling out a roll of bandages. Without saying anything, I wrap the cloth around his waist a couple of times, and then tie it off.

He gets up and shrugs into his shirt, then pulls on his raincoat. I stay where I am, watching him, not sure what to do. It doesn't seem like he's mad enough to stab me or anything, more annoyed really, but I'm still slightly nervous.

For a moment Gaston stays still and watches me, but then he sighs and shakes his head.

"It's not your fault," he says, sounding like he's trying to convince himself. I open my mouth to protest, to tell him off, but he keeps talking. "How 'bout we just shut up about politics until one of us dies? My future looks kinda bleak, and I'm not too interested in having you bitch me to death, so…?"

I'm about two seconds away from strangling him to death. But he did make a peace offering, kind of, and the way he's talking makes it clear that he knows exactly why Snow sent him off to the Hunger Games. I can't help but feel the very tiniest bit sorry for him. Besides, it's not his fault that he had grown up around bad influences.

"Okay. Fine. No more politics."

He smirks a little.

"Good. Now, how does supper sound?"

I groan as he pulls out a packet of beef jerky and another of dried apples. He eats the stuff like candy, but I can hardly get most of it down. After my mom's homemade meals and the decadent food from the Capitol, that freeze-dried crap tastes like manure.

Just as I'm forcing down my third piece of jerky, the anthem starts blaring. I freeze where I'm sitting, and it feels like there's a big lump in my throat. Even though I hate Dylan, I'm still terrified that I'm going to see his face flashing in the sky. No dramatic words exchanged, no big finish where one of us takes the other down. Just him gone.

"Calm down, he was doing more than fine when I left the cornucopia," Gaston drawls as he gets to his feet.

"I'm not worried about him," I argue.

"Sure you aren't," he says as he tosses the food aside and gets up to go take a peek at the sky. I follow quickly after him.

"I am not. I just wanted to be the one to kill him-"

I catch the tail end of the first image in the sky and flinch when I see Prynce's smiling face. Tears well up in my eyes when I think of him joking around with me that day at training. How can someone like that possibly be dead? And he was so big! How'd he die on the first day?

I guess it's kind obvious. His personality wasn't a ruse, and someone that… friendly isn't going to survive the Games.

After his face fades, a picture of the girl from Three pops up. Both from Five. The boy from Six. Both from Eight. The boy from Eleven. And the girl from Twelve.

Gaston yawns as the last picture fades.

"Well, as entertaining as that was, I'd say it's time for some much needed rest."

"Rest? But shouldn't one of us stand guard?"

He laughs.

"Over here? Nah. No tributes are over here, and if any man-eating mutts come this way, they'll probably be noisy enough to wake me up."

"Are you sure?" I ask him, skeptical.

"Positive," he answers, bending over and picking up the blanket and his sword. "Now come on. You might as well provide body heat, seeing as you aren't doing anything else."

With that he retreats to the back of the overhang, and I follow him slightly hesitantly. I do not want to get any closer to him than I have to, especially not when he's sleeping with a bloody sword.

"I'm not going to kill you _yet_," Gaston says as he plops down on the cool grass. He pats the space beside him. "Now, come on. We're getting up early tomorrow, and I don't want you bitching because you didn't get enough sleep."

"I wouldn't-" I start.

"Just lay down," he interrupts. I sigh and cautiously lower myself to the ground beside him. I can almost feel him smirking, even if it's too dark to see clearly. "See? You aren't even dead yet."

"Yet," I tell him. He chuckles slightly as he throws the blanket over us. I snuggle into it, grateful for the heat and protection from the bugs, then curl up as close to Gaston as I'm comfortable with and close my eyes. The ground isn't exactly soft, and Gaston kind of smells like grass and sweat, but I'm a million times more comfortable than before and sleep comes easily.

**A/N- **

**Sorry that didn't really get anything accomplished, but I just wanted to get something posted since I'm so late. I just got back from vacation two days ago, so I was scrambling to get this up. I hope that it's not too rushed. The action is going to get started soon, I assure you. **

**Thanks for the reviews, I'm glad you're still reading after this long, and I hope all of you keep telling me what you think. Thank you. **

**~bballgirl32~ **


	9. Chapter 10

As soon as I fall asleep, I start dreaming. I'm sitting beside Gaston while he twirls that stupid hunting knife in his hands, a wild smirk on his face.

"You know, I changed my mind," he says. "I no longer want to work with any filthy Capitol scum."

He stops twirling the knife and holds it in his hand, staring at the blade thoughtfully.

"No. I'm not Capitol scum," I argue. "I'm from the Districts, just like you."

His smirk turns into a glower and he looks at me with those dark and terrible eyes.

"_Never_ say that I'm anything like you. You're nothing but filth." He gets up and starts stalking over to me. I cower into a corner.

"I've never done anything wrong," I protest.

He kneels down in front of me and puts a calloused hand under my chin.

"That's the problem, Griffin," he says. He raises the knife and holds it to my throat. "Maybe you should have broken a few rules." I feel the cold steel tip digging into my skin.

"Gaston, no!" I shout as the knife digs into my throat. "Gaston. Gaston. Gaston…."

Someone is shaking me, and I tear my eyes open, jumping back when I see obsidian eyes staring down at me.

"You've been saying my name in your sleep. Having dirty dreams?" he asks with a smirk. I glare at him.

"More like nightmares," I mutter, pushing myself into a sitting position as I collect my bearings. I'm in the Hunger Games, far away from unsavory tributes, but in danger of being mauled by mutts. Today, we are going to get ready to start a fire in the hopes of killing more than a dozen innocent kids.

I'm _so _glad I woke up.

"You wound me," Gaston says sarcastically. It already looks like he's ready to go. About half of the contents of his pack are shoved into a corner, clearly considered unnecessary. He's been up for a while.

"Good. That was my goal," I tell him as I crawl over to the pile and start rifling through it. We either have doubles of everything, or it _is _useless. Then I see the three cans of bug spray. I think back to some of my father's numerous supper-time talks with Dylan. Bug spray is flammable. I pick them up and walk over to Gaston. "We're taking these."

"Oh, come on," he argues. "If you're really that worried about the bugs, spray yourself now, but you do realize that if there's anything big enough to kill you, bug spray isn't going to help, right?"

"Are you stupid?" I ask. "I don't care about killing bugs. Most bug spray has either propane or butane in it."

"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," he says. I sigh.

"I remember my dad teaching Dylan how to start fires. You can use bug spray. Propane and butane are both flammable gasses. We spray this stuff on grass, and it'll have the same kind of effect that lighter fluid would."

Gaston grabs a can of the stuff in his hands and tosses it up and down.

"So, we spend the day spraying this down the shoreline?" he asks.

"No. It would probably evaporate or something if we leave it to wait too long. We can spray it later tonight. For now, we should…." I rack my brain for ways to make sure the fire traveled the entire coastline. "We should go make sure that there's enough dead foliage in the right places. All of the dead grass and junk on the forest floor would burn easily, so if we can move that around, it'd make a clear path for the fire to follow and reduce the chance of it going out."

"So you're suggesting that we go down into the forest in the middle of the day and just start stacking grass? Do you know how dangerous that would be?"

I roll my eyes at him.

"We can take turns standing guard."

Gaston laughs and reaches out to pinch one of my arms. "You, do manual labor? That's almost as funny as the idea of you standing watch. This is kind of a lose-lose situation."

He's right, but his attitude still makes me mad. It's not like he didn't have some kind of an idea of what he was getting into before we started all of this. Besides, his job is to do all of the hard work. I've already formulated a plan, and that's all anyone expected me to do.

"I'll have to do something, you know," I argue.

"Yeah, I know. And as little as I trust you to watch my back efficiently, it'll go faster that way. Now, I know that walking three miles is a pretty daunting task for you, but we'll be going pretty slowly. Do you think you can manage that?"

I glare at him, even though he probably isn't that far off base. My legs are _sore_, and three whole miles sounds like hell. But it is just walking, and what kind of person wins the Hunger Games without being able to so much as _walk _three miles?

"I can manage it," I snap indignantly. He ruffles my hair, just like he had that first day at training.

"Well, come on then, let's go," he says as he throws the bug spray into his pack.

I sigh and push myself to my feet, wincing as my legs extend for the first time. Gaston laughs at me.

"It's not funny," I mutter, but he's already out of the little shelter. I look around to see if I have to grab anything, and it's kind of depressing that I don't, that I have absolutely nothing to my name anymore. It's not like dwelling on that would help anything, though, so I hurry after Gaston.

Climbing up the hill is a lot easier and a lot faster this time. Probably because Gaston just throws me over his shoulder and takes off. He's in more of a hurry than he was yesterday. I don't know if it's because he knows Snow doesn't want him to make it out alive and he's hoping that finishing the Games quickly might give him a chance, or if he's just excited to start the plan, but his pace has him panting from exertion when we're not even a quarter of the way up.

He makes it almost to the top when he stops and shoves his raincoat in his bag, then starts rummaging through his bag. His sword had been in his belt the whole time, but he takes out a couple knives as well.

"Here," he grunts, handing one of them to me, then sticking the other two one his belt. "I'd feel better if I could've grabbed a spear, or maybe some arrows, but this'll have to do. Your brother got a nice bow yesterday, so maybe if we run into him I'll be able to come away with them."

"He got a bow?" I ask, my blood running cold.

"Yeah, he did. Why, can he shoot?"

"Freakishly well," I mutter. We don't even have any long distance weapons. If he spots us, we could not even know that he's there before we've got an arrow sticking out of our throats.

Gaston must realize this too because he curses under his breath.

"Well, that's just wonderful," he says, then runs a nervous hand through his damp hair. "Whatever. It shouldn't matter, anyway. I'm guessing that his little group is already miles away. They'll double back tonight, but if all goes well the fire will already be started and we'll be far away from them."

I take a deep breath. He's right. We'll be far, far away before we ever run into the Careers. Maybe we'll hit a couple of lone tributes, but no one that Gaston can't handle easily. We'll be fine. Completely and one hundred percent fine.

"I don't know why you're worrying about it, anyway. You've got yourself a wonderful guardian angel. I'm the one with a physically disabled walking hazard to protect me," Gaston drawls with his usual smirk. I start to protest, but he shakes his head. "If you start in on me, we'll get into a twenty minute argument. We need to get going."

Then, with absolutely no warning whatsoever, I'm flung over his shoulder one more time and we're off again. He lets me down again when we reach the peak.

"Okay, you're not stupid, but I'm going to give you rules. One- Keep that knife out and ready. Two- You've got a big mouth. Keep it shut. Three- If you see someone, do not let them know that you see them unless they are an immediate threat. But if they are simply watching, communicate it to me silently so I can take care of it. And Four- You may think that you're smarter than me, but when we are down there, what I say goes. Always. Do you understand?"

"I understand," I answer quietly, swallowing as I look down at the forest in front of us. My stomach clenches at the thought of the immediate danger that I'll be in so soon.

"Good. Now you are going to crawl down that hill, otherwise you'll be an easy target and everyone will know where we are." Then he pushes me forward and I fall flat on my face. He's beside me a moment later, and I start crawling through the grass, which is now over my head. I flinch at every little bug, but I'm really worried that I'm going to run into some giant rodent that'll bite my face off.

I think Gaston is even a little bit nervous about that because he's got his sword out while he's crawling, and even I know that no tribute would have the vantage point to see us. Although I'm kind of thinking that I'd rather get shot down by some tribute than crawl over the filthy ground. The entire front of my shirt and pants are brown, my elbows are green, and red scratches line my arms and legs. In addition to the horribly annoying bug bits that are already there.

Then, finally, we get to the level where the trees start, and I'm able to stand up. It's kind of difficult to maintain my footing on the steep hill, but Gaston doesn't seem to be having many troubles, so I use him to keep from falling if there isn't a tree in the immediate vicinity.

It's not five minutes later that we're at ground level again. Gaston keeps his sword slightly raised as he slinks through the forest, quiet as a cat. I don't manage quite so well, but the leaves on the floor are so soft that even I don't make too much noise.

We get to the edge of the forest without any incident. Gaston holds up his hand for me to stop while he quickly peeks out onto the beach. Once he's done, he tugs on me so that we're facing a try and puts his lips to my ear and starts whispering.

"We've got a half mile hike until we're at the very edge of the beach. From what I can see, no one has been out there since the bloodbath, so I was right about the Careers being gone. We just have to hope that they went in the direction I expected. For now, I say we hike to the end of the beach and start working."

I nod, and he sets off again. My eyes dart around the forest as we walk, nervously looking for rabid tributes come to kill us, or blood thirsting birds, or flesh-eating insects. Thankfully we run into none of them the entire way to the end of the beach. For the first time, I think that these Games may not be so difficult.

Gaston starts out tossing handfuls of leaves, bark, and grass into about foot high piles in a basically continuous line along the edge of the trees while I do my best to keep watch. There are some areas with enough dead things that we skip over them entirely, and other places that are so sparse that it takes nearly an hour to just cover a small area of space.

The first mile and a half or so takes what I estimate as about three hours, and the land ahead looks like it shouldn't take too long to cover. For just an instant I'm thinking that maybe we'll finish this without any problems at all, and I lower my guard for the first time that afternoon.

Ten minutes later, I see the yellow eyes staring down at us.

**A/N- **

**Gees. I'm getting really bad with my updates. I'm sorry about that, by the way. I'll try to get better about it, but the chapters may be a bit short for a while since I've been so busy. **

**And speaking of late updates, for everyone who's waiting for me to update Spreading the Fire, I'd probably look for it Thursday at the earliest, even though I'll try to get it up sooner. **

**Now that my apologies are finished, I'd like to send my thanks out to; brooke13243546, Hahukum Konn, person with no name, Seulement Moi CL, silver cat 777, solid as a cloud (the coastline is about three miles long), and other person with no name. **

**Thank you, and I'll try to get my updates back to every week. **

**~bballgirl32~ **


	10. Chapter 11

My first instinct is to scream. I want to scream. Then I remember Gaston's warning to tell him very quietly if I see a threat. Screaming would not qualify as very quietly.

"Gaston," I whisper softly. He must hear something in my voice because instead of making a rude remark, he puts on hand on his sword and slowly turns around.

I watch as his eyes scan the surrounding area, then settle on whatever is watching us.

"Back away from it," he whispers roughly. "If it hasn't attacked yet, it may not be dangerous."

Not dangerous? Yeah, right. But I do still take his advice and lift a foot to creep backwards.

That's when it jumps. I know that I should move, but it's as if my legs have frozen solid. The thing, an enormous streak of black, is about two feet away from killing me with razor sharp jaws when Gaston runs his sword through its neck. The thing's head clatters off my legs and lands just in front of me.

"That wasn't so bad," Gaston says. I try to laugh, but it comes out too high.

"Yeah, not so bad," I whisper, kicking the head. It was a panther. I lean in a little bit closer to study it when I realize that it doesn't look normal. It's eyes and the skin around its head seem to be bulging out, almost like they're going to explode. I furrow my brow and reach in to poke it when I realize that its expanding, like something is blowing it up with air. My eyes find the other half of its body, and the same thing is happening. Almost like it's going to explode…

"Oh, crap," I curse, already starting to run. "Gaston, we have to get out of here!"

To his credit, he doesn't question me, just takes off in the same way I'm going. I'm not quite ten feet away from the panther when all of the sudden… BANG!

My first thought is that the smell is terrible. My next is that someone had to have heard that. Then my last is what is the point of an exploding panther.

That's when Gaston careens into me with a moan. He quickly steadies himself on a tree, but his face is twisted in obvious pain.

"What happened?"

In response, he turns so that I can see his left arm.

I almost throw up. Whatever was inside of the panther had to have been acidic. The majority of his top two layers of skin has been eaten away from the back of his left elbow to his shoulder. His back probably would have been burnt too, but the pack had covered it. Instead, the material on the outside of the backpack is burnt away to reveal a plastic second layer.

But still, his arm is bad enough. I thought the gash was bad, but this is just…

"Okay, don't panic, don't panic," I say, looking around for anything to help.

"I'm not the one panicking," he says coldly. "Now just give me a second, it's not so bad."

"Not too bad? Not too bad? Your skin is gone!"

"And we have sponsors who can make it better later. For now we have to hide out, at least for a short while. That… thing made a lot of noise, and I'll bet you anything that someone is coming to investigate. We can just find a cave or something around this area. I'm guessing that I'll be good enough to finish stacking the grass in a couple of hours."

"Are you sure? Because that thing looks-"

"Duck!"

I drop to the ground, and a knife whizzes about two inches away from my head just a second later. _Oh, God. Why now? Why couldn't this have happened ten minutes ago, before my bodyguard was hurt? _

I quickly spin around and try to see who attacked, praying that it's not the Careers, because really, they would not be too easy to deal with right now. Instead, it's about the next worse thing. Byre, the big guy from Eleven, is standing in the clearing with a spear pointed at me, but both eyes on Gaston, who has nothing but a sword and a very obviously injured arm. I can almost see the gears in his brain turning, weighing the second that it'll take to kill me versus how long it'll take Gaston to get to him with the sword.

Trying to make as little movement as possible, I reach for the knife that Gaston gave me. Byre's eyes flash back down to me, but before he can throw the spear, I chuck the knife straight at him.

Okay, I don't throw it. There is no chance of it getting a good stick, but it forces Byre to deflect the knife with his spear. Gaston, instead of using the opportunity to charge like a good boy, uses the distraction to sling the pack off of his good arm and onto the ground.

Byre takes the half second before he regains his composure to get in position to chuck his spear. After that, everything is a blur. I think that I see the spear leave his hand, but if it does, Gaston knocks it away with his sword. Byre must draw a sword or lance, or something like that some point in there, because they're sword fighting when my fear has died down enough that I can see clearly.

I scurry backwards, my eyes both focused on the two of them. It's clear that Gaston would have taken care of Byre easily if his left shoulder hadn't been burnt through. Byre has little to no sword fighting experience, whereas Gaston is the most talented swordsman that I've ever seen, at least twice as good as even Dylan. The only problem is that he's basically fighting one handed.

My brain scrambles for some way to help him as Byre backs him further and further into the forest, but I can't think of anything. I couldn't throw a knife at him because I know that it wouldn't stick. If I ran up and tried to stab him in the back, I run the danger of getting whacked with a sword. I suppose the knife may distract him enough for Gaston to kill him, but I have serious doubts.

Then I see the spear that Byre had tried to chuck at me. Without really thinking about it, I pick it up and do my best to sneak up on Byre. Once I'm about five feet away, I take the spear and drive it into his back with as much force as I can manage.

I can see his sword arm go stiff immediately, and Gaston takes the opportunity to go on the offensive for the first time in the fight, stabbing his sword directly into Byre's stomach.

Byre makes this terrible gurgling sound that I don't think I'll ever forget, and I think that it bothers Gaston, too, because instead of just leaving him to die, he takes out his knife and slits his throat.

"G-grab his sword, Griffin," Gaston pants. I blanch at the idea of going anywhere near the blood-covered mess, but Gaston gives me a look that clearly says 'do it, or you'll be next', so I sprint forward and pry the sword out of Byre's fingers.

"Okay. I suppose we should probably get going now," I tell him, kind of hovering back. Gaston's covered in small gashes from the sword fight, and his arm has now swollen up a disgusting amount, and it's clearly affecting him. His eyes are glazed over, his entire face is ghostly white, and his chest is heaving.

In other words, he looks weak. Terrible, hopelessly weak. I don't know how to deal with a weak Gaston.

"No shit," he mutters hoarsely. "Go and get the pack and…and pick up your knife." He closes his eyes and leans his head back against a tree. "I'm not going to be able to carry anything. You'll have to… have to drag it."

"Right, okay. That sounds wonderful," I agree nervously, then quickly scramble to receive our things. I don't think that dragging the pack is an extremely good idea, so I put my arms through the straps and prepare myself to heave it up, then nearly pitch forward when I realize how light it is. Right, we left most of the junk at camp. I forgot about that, and apparently Gaston did, too. Although he kind of has an excuse.

Thinking about that reminds me that he's kind of almost defenseless at that moment, so I quickly hurry back to where he was standing.

"Are you going to be okay to walk?" I ask him.

"Fine," he mutters, then takes a deep breath and stands up straight. "You… you can lead, though."

After that, we slowly head deeper into the forest. I keep my eyes peeled for any place that would be halfway decent for some kind of shelter, but there's nothing, and Gaston is clearly in pain. Once we make it back to the beginning of the mountain with absolutely no luck, I order him to stop.

"B-But-"

"But we've got a wall at our backs, and we can see pretty well around us. I've got a sword-" He laughs, but I ignore him. "And you'll be fine in just a second because everyone loves you, and you've got lots of sponsors."

With that sentence, I look up to the sky and raise my arms dramatically. It's almost funny how quickly a parachute comes falling down towards us.

"See? So we'll rest here, grab something to eat quick, and then resume making the huge fire."

He just grunts, really not even paying attention anymore. I sigh and reach down to open up the parachute. There's a small metal jar that turns out to be filled with a putrid yellow cream when I open it.

I turn and start to scoop some up, but Gaston shakes his head. I jump back a little in surprise just because I really couldn't tell that he was still paying attention to me.

"Get the first aid kit," he slurs. I quickly dig through the bag until I find it. Once I've got it out, he takes a deep breath and says, "Now just… just pour that alcohol over my arm."

He closes his eyes and I can see him biting his lip. I know that it's going to hurt like hell when I rinse his arm off, and I'm not very big at hurting people. Even stabbing Byre with that thing made my gut twist.

Except I need Gaston's arm to get better, or I'm screwed. So I take a deep breath and carefully douse his shoulder with the alcohol.

He starts shaking, and his fists are clenched so tight that his knuckles are white, but he doesn't make a single noise. That makes it easier for me to polish off about half the bottle without having any fits of my own.

When I deem that it's clean, I step back and wait for Gaston to loosen up out of his position. It takes nearly an entire minute for his breathing to even out and his hands to quit shaking.

"Okay," he mutters through gritted teeth. "Now put that crap on it."

I retrieve the jar of 'crap' and open it up again. Then I hesitate.

Pouring the alcohol on was one thing. But actually _touching _his arm? Totally different.

"Do. It."

Right. It's better off than being the one with the acid-burned arm.

I carefully scoop some of the smelly yellow stuff into my fingers, then gingerly spread it over his mangled, scalded skin. Gaston lets out a low hiss of air that makes flinch back a little, but he doesn't ask me to stop, so I keep going until his arm is completely covered in that stuff.

"Now bandage it."

So I listen to him and quickly unroll a roll of bandages and cover his disgusting arm as quickly as I can. Once I'm finished, I have to admit that it doesn't look half as bad as I'd thought.

"Does it feel better now?" I ask. He glares at me. Apparently not.

"Just give me an hour," he says stiffly. I nod, then take a seat beside him on the log he'd positioned himself on. It isn't even two minutes before he's sleeping on my shoulder.

I half expect a tribute to come running out at us at exactly that moment, but no one does. After a while I decide that I should probably be keeping watch, so I grab Byre's sword and hold onto it tightly while I pray that Gaston wakes up soon.

**A/N- **

**Okay, technically I got that updated within a week. Yes, I was cutting it close, and most people are probably asleep by now, but for me, it was a week. So I'm somewhat proud of myself. I just hope that the chapter wasn't too bad. I wasn't too sure about the action scenes since usually I'm writing from the POV of the person actually fighting, instead of the wimp who just sits there and watches. Because of that, they may be confusing, and/or unrealistic. If either of those things are the case, please tell me and I'll try to fix that. **

**Other than that, thanks to silver cat 777, Laura 2497, brooke13243546 (**_**I will finish the Games even if Alessia dies. As for a sequel, I'm not sure. If there's no sequel, I'll do an epilogue, though**_**), and Hahukum Konn for reviewing. **

**~bballgirl32~ **


	11. Chapter 12

Gaston starts stirring a couple of hours later, and I let out a quick breath of relief. As I watched the time pass, I started getting nervous that we wouldn't have time to do anything else today. Well, and my arm had been falling asleep.

"What time is it?" he mutters, his rough voice even more gravelly than usual. He sits up straight and paws at his eyes with the back of his hand, a gesture that makes him look about five years old. I have to bite my tongue to hold back a laugh.

"I don't know," I say. "Still light out. Maybe five or six?"

"Shit," he curses, getting unsteadily to his feet. "The careers could be doubling back over here by now. We've got to either hurry, or leave half the coastline open and hope the fire spreads."

"If you're well enough, we should try to finish it. If I know Dylan at all, he's going to scour that entire forest over there until he's sure that he has all the tributes. He won't let any go."

As if to prove my point, a cannon booms in the distance.

Gaston runs a hand through his hair as looks in the direction of the coastline, then nods.

"I'm trusting you on this," he says, looking straight at me. "So we better not wind up dead."

I swallow nervously. I don't know when it happened, but now I really don't want to let him down.

"We won't," I say with as much confidence as I can muster. His dark eyes stare straight at me for a moment before he nods.

"Okay, let's go, then. My arm feels good enough to move grass, and with that brute from Eleven out of the way, I don't think there are any tributes to worry about other than the Careers."

With that, we make out way back to where it's clear we stopped, and resume what we were doing before the panther attack. I can see that Gaston is working more stiffly and slowly now, but we're still making really good time, and no one seems to be anywhere in sight. To my immense relief, we finish the second half of the coastline quickly and without incident.

"Now what?" Gaston pants, continually looking over his shoulder nervously. Like him, I can't take my eyes away from the forest that stretches out behind us and wraps around the main set of mountains. The Careers are somewhere in there, and if we don't hurry…

"Double back for a while, squirting bug spray on the grass every few yards. It should be late enough that we'll have to light the fire as soon as we get back to the other end of the coastline, so it won't have time to evaporate."

"Do you think you can jog most of it?" he asks.

Jog? Three miles?

"Um."

"We'll start out jogging, how about that? Get away from the Careers, and then we can slow down."

"Okay, that sounds fine," I tell him, and then we start back down the coastline. After only a few hundred yards, I hear what sounds an awful lot like footsteps echoing along the forest floor. A moment later, a pale face peeks at us from around one of the thin trees. I kick Gaston in the shin, probably not very discreetly, and his sword is raised in a moment.

The face quickly disappears, but Gaston must have gotten a glimpse because he jumps in the direction of the tree. The cannon fires, and he's back a moment later, not even panting, his sword stained with fresh blood. I swallow. Gaston purses his lips.

"I hate taking ones like that out because they aren't even threats." I give him a questioning look, and he says, "It was that girl from Ten." With a shake of his head, he continues, "I doubt she was any older than fourteen, she had no weapons, and she couldn't have been doing anything more than investigating the noise."

I bite my lip as my face pales, my stomach clenching with guilt. The girl I ate lunch with that day. Why did I need to point her out?

"Why'd you kill her, then?" I ask, not able to really get mad at him because it was half my fault.

"Would you rather I give her a quick, painless death, or do you want her to burn in the fire?"

I take a shaky breath, conceding his point.

"Okay, fine, I get what you're saying." He's also saying that another thirteen or fourteen kids could end up dying very painfully in the fire, but I choose to ignore that fact. "We, we should get back to work."

He nods in agreement, and we continue on our way down the shoreline. Eventually, I see the cornucopia in the distance after I peek out of the trees, meaning that we only have a little over a mile to go. Gaston makes me pick up the pace just slightly, and we get to the end of the shoreline in a half an hour with no other interference.

It all seems much, much, too easy, but I'm not going to complain.

I glance up and see the sun, just peeking over the horizon.

"Do you think we should start it?" I ask. He polishes off the second can of bug spray along a ten foot stretch of grass, which is probably what we're supposed to be lighting.

"It's ready. I don't see why not. Can you grab a match from the pack?"

I listen to him and grab one, then hand it to him, praying that this is going to work.

"You do realize that you'll have to get yourself up most of the mountain, right?" he asks me. I nod. Then he takes a deep breath an strikes the match against a tree before dropping it on top of the bug spray soaked grass. It flares up and starts burning instantly, and Gaston turns and starts running. I follow after him, the smell of smoke trailing after us.

I'm tired, and exhausted, and my legs are completely dead from going six miles already today, but I can almost feel the fire flaring up, can sense the smoke starting to rise, and that pushes me to force my body to go beyond its normal limits. Even when my arms feel like rubber, and my legs start shaking with exhaustion, I keep pulling myself up that stupid mountain beyond Gaston, who's struggling this time around as well, no doubt due to his arm.

We reach the edge of the tree line within twenty minutes, and both of us catch our breath, then turn around. For a moment I pray that the fire caught, and then I see that praying is completely unnecessary. It's already spread across a good half mile of the coastline, and I can see the flames burning brightly, too close for comfort. The smell of smoke is already starting to get stronger.

"Gaston," I whisper worriedly. "You don't think that it's going to burn more than just the shoreline, do you?"

"As in 'do I think it's going to come up the mountain'?" he asks hoarsely. He shrugs. "Let me just tell you, if it does, you'd better pray that it takes everyone else out before it gets near us."

I groan.

"I probably should have thought of that before."

"No shit," he snaps, drawing his sword. For a moment I flinch back, sure that he's going to kill me for it, but he chuckles harshly and says, "Damnit, Griffin. I think that you know I could take you out whenever I want. I don't need to yet. Now take out that sword you found, and give it to me."

I listen and hand him Byre's sword.

"Okay," he says. "Now get on my back and do _not _touch my left arm."

"But-"

"I can handle it," he says harshly. "I have a different idea this time."

I hesitantly get on his back, being extremely careful not to get anywhere near his arm. Once my arms are wrapped tightly around his neck, and my legs around his waist, he starts basically walking forward, stabbing the swords into the ground to that he can keep his balance. His shoulders tense every time he has to use his left arm, but he isn't throwing that much force into any of his movements, nothing like he would be if he'd kept up his whole jumping idea.

I'm almost convinced that we're going to make it over easily when the wind picks up, blowing straight towards us. The smell of smoke begins to get unbearably strong, and soot begins to coat our skin and hair. I start coughing terribly, and Gaston barks at me to cover my mouth with my shirt. He does the same thing and continues to force his way to the top of the mountain, his breathing turning labored and raspy, and his movements becoming jerky and unpredictable.

We're ten feet away from the top when the smoke gets to the point that I start getting dizzy. Gaston keeps grunting his way forward, even though he's in about ten times worse shape than I am.

Then, finally, he throws himself onto the flat ground on top, crying out loudly when his bad arm thuds against the ground. I roll off of his back awkwardly, something in the pack digging into my skin when I land on it. I don't care. I want to stay there forever and never move. My head is foggy, and I'm not sure what's going on, and all that I know is that I'm tired, and breathing hurts, and there's too much smoke.

Then someone is dragging me awkwardly, and I feel like I'm falling, or maybe rolling, but I can't really tell and I don't really care either way. I feel the sensation of landing on something hard and uncomfortable, and then everything goes black.

**A/N- **

**Yeah, I know that they're whole little 'make the fire' thing was really easy, but don't worry, this isn't going to be the end of the Games or anything, so there's still a lot more time for plenty of bad things to happen. The only other thing that I have to say is that Spreading the Fire should be updated around Saturday or Sunday, probably, for everyone reading that story. **

**Thanks to Hahukum Konn, silver cat 777, and brooke13243546 for reviewing, and I hope that everyone liked the chapter. **

**~bballgirl32~**


	12. Chapter 13

My throat and nose both sting terribly when I wake up, and my skin is coated in a mixture of sweat and ash. I feel like crap.

I start to sit up, racking my brain to figure out just what happened, then stiffen and lay back down immediately when I remember the feeling of being dragged off. I know for a fact that Gaston was too tired to do that.

"Don't bother. I saw you move."

Oh shit. No, no, no, no, no. I know that voice.

With a groan, I push myself into a sitting position, tearing my eyes open for the first time, slightly startled to see how dark it is. That doesn't mean that I can't see that shining blue eyes, the golden blond hair, though. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. I suppose that I should be surprised, maybe glad for the wonderful family reunion, but I'm more numb than anything.

"You're supposed to be dead," I mutter, not able to look at him in the fear that I'll see the weapon that he's going to use to kill me.

"You took out a good chunk of people, I'll give you that, but your precious fire didn't touch me."

"Chunk of people. How many?" I asked dazedly.

"Seven. There are seven left now."

Seven. In one go. I don't know if I should be proud of myself, or disgusted. Seven people who will never see their families again because of me. Right before I die, too. That's a sure ticket to hell. But a part of myself can't help but think that I already have one of the highest kill totals in these Games. The person who no one would have expected to make it past the first day.

Then I wonder if I'll actually get the kills, or if Gaston will because he did all the work. That's when I realize that he isn't here.

"Dylan, you didn't kill Gaston, did you?" I ask, scared to hear the answer. I don't know why, but I don't want him dead yet, especially not when it would be my fault that he was so weak in the first place.

Dylan snorts.

"If I did, you would be dead right now. I couldn't see him right away, but I was forced to leave because of the smoke." He stands up and walks over to me with long, even strides. "He is the only one left in these Games who is a danger to me, Alessia. The _only one_. If you can take me to him, I am almost guaranteed a trip home. Don't you want that, for your family?"

He kept me alive to show him where Gaston is. And I almost certainly know where he is. I had our pack, all of our supplies, so there's no doubt in my mind that he was forced to go back to our little overhang.

Only I don't want Dylan to kill him. I'd rather my own brother die than sell Gaston out. Somewhere in the last three or four days or however long it's been, I've grown to respect him more than I ever could Dylan.

Would Gaston trust me enough to help me if I took him in the general direction of the overhang? Would he see me with Dylan and automatically think that I'd switched sides, or would he know that I was being held hostage?

I don't know. I have very little idea how Gaston's mind works. I don't know if he'd even care whether I was dead or not. All that I know is that I'm not going to sell him out, that it would be a dirty move, and not worth it at all.

"Fine," I spit, like I have no choice but to agree with him. "On one condition."

Dylan snorted.

"This should be good."

"Just fill me in," I say. "I have no idea what's happened over the last…"

"Two days," he answers. "You've been out for two days."

"So you'll tell me?"

"Yes. I'll tell you, on the way. Are you good to walk?"

"Would you give a crap if I wasn't?" I ask waspishly. He lets out a low whistle.

"It's nice to see your real personality start to come out. I always knew you were a bitch." I take a deep breath, biting my tongue against the flood of retorts that I would like nothing more than to spit in his face. "And no, I wouldn't give a crap. I was just asking. Now come on. I want to take that scumbag out before he has time to get healthy."

"Um. Where are we?" I ask as I stumble onto my feet. It's too dark to see anything very clearly.

"Over the mountain," he tells me. "Like everyone else who's still alive. Your fire worked like a charm, it burned right up until it started raining last night. That entire half of the arena is burnt to a crisp."

At least I got something right.

"Who did it kill off?"

Dylan starts walking, and I follow after him, really wishing that I still had a pack or a knife, or something. I glare at his back, taking in his enormous sword, much bigger than Gaston's, the bow slung over his shoulder, and the thick bag that he is carrying on his back.

"The only ones who I cared to remember are the girls from 1 and 4," he says.

"Weren't they the last two in your little pack?" I ask, already falling behind. He slows down to allow me to catch up. "How'd they die if you're still alive?"

"I ditched them," he answered. "When I saw the hovercraft coming down over the trees the day you started the fire, I figured that it was probably your rebel friend, so I ran off and decided to chase the two of you instead. I had to veer off course once I saw the fire, but I caught up to you eventually. Too bad that the stupid creep ditched you."

Except that he didn't ditch me. He could hardly walk. I shake my head, clueless as to what happened to him.

"That's all I wanted to know," I finally say.

"Good. Now, do you recognize this place?"

I look around. I honestly don't have any idea where I'm at, but that may be because it's dark, too.

"Not at all. Where are we in relation to the cornucopia?"

"Probably a mile to the left of it. We're straight back from where the fire started," he answered. So that's about a half mile of going to the right, or North, I think. I wonder if Dylan has any idea how close we are to where we need to be.

"I have kind of an idea where we are, but I think that we should wait until morning. I can't really see, and-"

He grabs something from his pack and thrusts them into my hands. I look down hesitantly and see a pair of sunglasses with dark green lenses. For seeing at night. How wonderful.

"Thanks," I say unenthusiastically as I put the glasses on.

"Just hurry up."

Right. Hurry up.

I sigh and continue on in the general direction of the overhang, my steps slow and hesitant. I know that if Gaston isn't ready, Dylan is going to kill the both of us. I just don't know of any way to warn him that we're approaching.

"I'm just going to warn you that I only know one place where he might be, but it's been two days, and if he's packed up from there, I have no idea where he is," I try, pretty sure that Gaston hasn't been in any condition to pack up and move, unless he got help from his sponsors, which I suppose isn't too out of the question.

"We're going to look anyway, and if he isn't there, you had better figure out another place, or else you're useless to me."

"And then I'm going to die?" I ask. "I bet that you're looking forward to that, aren't you? Finish what you tried in the elevator that day."

He stiffens.

"I don't want to kill you, Ally."

Ally. What he called me when I was six, back before he got really into his training and we completely grew apart. I hardly even remember that long ago. The only memories that I have are flashes of my first year of school, about bragging about everything that I was doing to Dylan. Because his approval was all that I wanted back then.

I grit my teeth and push the memories away.

"Could've fooled me."

"It's necessary," he says.

"Why? Why is it necessary? Why didn't you just forget about volunteering after I got picked? Why didn't you just choose to trust me about the whole Gaston thing? And why are you going to kill me as soon as I show you where he is?"

He turns back to face me then, his face red with anger, his blue eyes frozen solid.

"Put yourself in my place for just a moment," he growls. "Think about how it would feel if you had a younger sister who had everything her entire life, if she got private schooling, tutors from the Capitol, presents and attention, and everything she could ever want. And while she was getting pampered and loved, you were forced to spend every second of your childhood working your ass off so that you could go to the Hunger Games, where there was a good chance that you would die. Picture that, Alessia."

"I- It wasn't like that," I protest.

"But it was," he spits. "Except then it gets worse. Because then that pampered princess of a little sister decides to poke her head into the one thing that was yours. Do you think that you would want to step back and let her get that too, all while you lose the only thing that you ever lived for?"

I look at my feet.

"But I didn't want to go to the Games," I whisper, even though I can see exactly why he was so mad at me, why he hates me so much. He's right. I never thought of it like that before, but our parents more or less raised him for slaughter, all while they were giving me everything that I ever wanted.

"That's not the point," he tosses back.

And I know that he's right, so I don't argue anymore. Because if I take this away from him, he's going to die with nothing.

Yet, I still don't want to betray Gaston because something in my gut tells me that he deserves winning more than Dylan does, despite everything. A part of me does want Dylan to get home, but for the most part, I know that _my _only chance to get out of here lies with Gaston, that sticking with Dylan means death. Because the Gamemakers don't want Gaston to get out, and if he can kill Dylan for me, then _I _am almost guaranteed to win.

The two of us walk on in silence, and I know that we're nearing the overhang. I'm actually starting to recognize some of my surroundings. I begin stomping my feet more than necessary, keep my eyes peeled for a sign of Gaston.

Then I almost want to cry out in relief. The slightest of movements catches my eye, and when I look very closely, I see a pair of eyes, dark as midnight, looking out at me. Those dark eyes flash in the general direction of the overhang, and he shakes his head, just slightly.

He doesn't want me to show Dylan the overhang, for whatever reason.

If I take my brother to some place with absolutely no sign of human occupation, he is going to be mad. He may possibly kill me. But Gaston is right here, it looks like he's not going to ditch me, and I can't have him thinking that I've betrayed him.

Basically, I have two choices. I can either trust Gaston to help me, or I can decide not to trust him and take Dylan to the overhang, or even just sell Gaston out now.

"Did you see something?" Dylan asks me harshly. "What are you looking at?"

"Just a funny looking bird," I answer, making my decision. Then I veer to the right, away from the overhang. "I recognize that tree. I think it should be this way."

**A/N- **

**Bet ya didn't see that one coming, huh? I couldn't just have Dylan fizzle out of the story, though. Besides, this adds lots of tension. This is actually getting to be my favorite story to update at the moment just because it's getting so down to the fire. Kind of. **

**Whatever. Thanks to solid as a cloud (I seriously started freaking out when I checked my emails and I had a chunk of like ten reviews from you for all my stories. I was happy all day), brooke13243546, Sabs97 (thanks for pointing that out, and I did change my summary), Hahukum Konn, silver cat 777, and Seulement Moi Cl. **

**Also thanks to all of my readers, and everyone who's favorited the story. **

**Lastly, I have a big track meet this weekend, far, far away, so for everyone who reads Spreading the Fire, my update may not be until Monday or Tuesday. **

**I hope you liked the chapter, and pleeeeaaaassssseee review **

**~bballgirl32~ **


	13. Chapter 14

"I don't see anything," Dylan says.

"It's somewhere around here. I know it is," I lie, pretending to look around desperately. I pray that Gaston isn't going to end up leaving me hanging. I've been leading Dylan around for hours, and I can feel him get more and more angry with every passing second.

"I think that you're bullshitting me," he growls. "The arena isn't that big, and you aren't stupid. If you haven't found it by now, then you're leading me away from it."

"No, no," I argue pleadingly. "I swear that I'm just hopelessly lost. Come on, Dylan. When have I ever needed to find my way around in the wilderness? I _am _looking."

Looking for a cliff to lead him off of. Ha. I wish. All of the mountains around here are so packed with foliage that a fall wouldn't even kill me, let alone him.

He stares at me for a very long moment, and for just a second, I think that he's going to believe it. Then he shakes his head slowly.

"No. I'm not going to believe you. The Gamemakers are going to take out Gaston anyway. It's no big deal. Keeping you alive any longer is too dangerous."

Crap. My eyes furiously scan the trees, hoping and praying that Gaston is hiding there somewhere, that I interpreted his silent communication right, that he wasn't messing with me earlier.

"Dylan," I say, my voice start to shake. "Please. Just a little bit longer."

He draws his sword.

"I apologize, Ally. I really didn't want to do this."

Suddenly all that I can see is glinting silver, and all of the sudden, I'm smacked with the reality that I really might die.

And I decide that I don't feel like dying quite yet, so I do the one logical thing that I can in the situation.

"HELP! GASTON! SOMEONE HELP ME!"

Dylan laughs, even though he looks around nervously before he raises the blade of his sword. He's just about to lower it when a rock comes flying through the air and hits him in the back of the head. Just a small one, but a rock all the same. He growls and whips around, his sword still raised.

Gaston steps out of the trees, and I exhale in relief. But then I start noticing little things that I really don't like. Like the burn running across his chest, and the way that he's still holding his left arm as if it's bothering him. He looks weary, too, and his breathing is strangely labored.

What in the hell is he doing here? He can't beat Dylan like that.

"You are stupid, aren't you? Letting yourself be led on a wild-goose chase by your baby sister? That's pathetic," Gaston says, his usually rough voice even raspier than usual. I back away from Dylan, just incase he takes Gaston's words as an excuse to turn around and kill me. He doesn't, though. He's too smart for that. All of his attention is on Gaston. Away from his weak little sister.

I know exactly what Gaston is thinking. He's thinking that I can kill Dylan. Without any weapons?

I bite my lip and think. A good blow to the small of the back could sever his spine, but I don't think that I'm strong enough. Slamming my hands over his ears could cause bleeding in his brain if I did it hard enough to rupture his eardrums, but I probably couldn't get enough force behind it. A rock to the temple? Jerking his head back?

I shake my head. I'm too weak to do any of that. I need a weapon. Some kind of weapon.

I see a rock and move to pick it up, but Dylan is on me an instant, one eyes still on Gaston, his sword still raised defensively.

"Move up here, where I can see you," he orders me. I curse under my breath and move in front of him, raising my hands so that he can see that I'm not arm. Gaston is still watching Dylan, studying him carefully.

"Not scared of a weak little girl, are you?" I ask him bitingly. His sword drifts towards me, then points back to Gaston when he raises his own sword.

"Don't worry. I'll have plenty of time left to deal with you when I'm done with your filthy rebel boyfriend," Dylan sneers, then backs away, making sure that he can see both of us at all times. He glances at Gaston. "Come here, Rebel Boy. If you're looking for a fight, come fight me."

Gaston steps forward wearily. Dylan is still in near perfect shape, nothing wrong with him except for a few cuts and scrapes. Gaston doesn't have a chance, no matter how good he is at sword fighting.

"Do you really want to fight me with her there?" he asks. "Aren't you worried that she's going to jump at you? You should see what she did with that big boy from Eleven. Stabbed him in the back with his own spear while I had him distracted."

Gaston shrugs out of a pack, a different one than we had earlier, and kicks it open. A knife comes out, lands right in front of his feet.

"She could get that if I you take your eye off of her. Do you really want to fight both of us?"

Dylan looks back and forth between the two of us, considering. Now, I know exactly what Gaston is trying to do. He doesn't want to fight. He's trying to con Dylan into giving me back. That's why he didn't want me to take him to our shelter. Because we may not be done with it yet.

"I could throw my sword at her," Dylan growls, "And it would kill her. You could do nothing about it."

"But then I could kill you," Gaston says. "A moment's distraction is all I need. You saw me in training, you know how fast I am."

"You're weaker now," Dylan points out. "You can't move that fast anymore."

"I could be faking it," says Gaston. He lifts his left arm and twirls it around, his face not showing any signs of pain. "Looks painful, doesn't it? With all of that burned off skin. But that doesn't mean that it's hurting me."

It is, though. I know how well he can tolerate pain, but I still see his hand tighten just slightly on the hilt of his sword with that movement. I also know that Dylan doesn't. He's got too much on his mind to watch little things like that.

For a very long time, everything is quiet. Then Dylan says, "You do realize that letting the two of you get away would be very, very stupid."

"Perhaps, but so would trying to fight us. If I get that knife to her, there's no way you can take us both on. You'd be dead within minutes."

He hesitates, looks back and forth between us, his face turning even more red than it was before.

"You don't want anything other than my stupid little sister?" he asks.

Gaston smirks.

"Stupid? I don't think you have any right to be insulting anyone else's intelligence."

Dylan's getting angry. If Gaston doesn't shut his mouth, there's going to be a fight here no matter how convinced Dylan is that he doesn't have a chance at willing.

"JUST ANSWER MY QUESTION!"

Gaston's smirk gets bigger, his dark eyes dancing with amusement. I have no idea how he can be so calm at a moment like this, but then again, I also have no idea how he's still walking after how beat us he is.

"Fine. I don't want anything other than your sister. Her and only her."

"Why?" Dylan demands.

"Because I'm in no condition to win these Games by myself. I'm planning on milking her until the very last second before I dispose of her. So far, she's proven more useful than I could have ever imagined."

Gaston takes another step forward, putting one foot on the knife he let fall to the ground. He can kick it to me if he needs to. Dylan must realize this, too, because he takes a big step back, his eyes going back and forth so fast that it would be funny if the situation wasn't so serious.

"Why would I give her to you if it'll help you win?"

A raspy laugh escapes Gaston's throat, and he kicks the knife in my direction. Dylan starts to go for it, but Gaston raises his sword, and he's forced to whirl around, giving me just the opportunity I need to close my fingers around the handle of the large hunting knife.

Dylan lets out a steady stream of curses that last for a good twenty seconds.

Gaston raises an eyebrow, but my brother doesn't even seem to notice.

Then he steps back, his sword still raised defensively.

"You stay where you are, Demers. Alessia, walk over to him slowly, and keep that knife where I can see it. Do you understand?"

I nod, then take a big, slow step towards Gaston, my knife raised up high, both of my eyes focused on Dylan. He doesn't move, and I take another step, and then another. I make it the entire way to where Gaston is standing with absolutely no problem. Once I'm safely beside him, carefully picks up the pack and slings it back over his shoulder. He's smirking like crazy, and I can see that it's driving Dylan insane.

"I'm going to get you eventually, and when I do, you're going to be sorry that you did this to me," Dylan growls.

A cannon booms in the distance. I vaguely lower the count of remaining tributes down to three, other than Dylan, Gaston, and me.

It's been five days, and they're almost all gone because of me. I bet that the people in the Capitol are mad. I know that they like Games that run longer.

_Because they like watching kids die. Because they like blood and guts, and the more that it hurts, the cooler it is. _

I shake my head fiercely. Not the time to be thinking things like that. Instead, I have to focus on what in the hell I'm going to do about Gaston. He only has four more people to kill, and then it's my turn.

I force that thought away, too.

"I wish it didn't have to be this way," I tell Dylan. He flips me off, then backs away. Gaston waits for him to disappear into the trees, then grabs my arm.

"He's still too close for comfort. We can celebrate once we get back to the overhang."

I nod, but smile at him.

"Thanks," I say. He rolls his eyes and ruffles my hair, and for the first time, I realize that Gaston is already more of a brother to me than Dylan will ever get the chance to be.

"You'd better make sure that it was worth it," he says, but he's smiling too. "Come on, now. I want to get away from your brother as soon as possible. Your wonderful little fire wasn't quite as convenient as you made it sound."

I look back at the blistering burn that stretches across his chest, the soot that's caked into his hair and on his face.

"Yeah, um. Sorry about that."

He shakes his head.

"Later."

And then we take off into the forest, heading back in the general direction of the overhang.

**A/N- **

**Early update. Ten points for moi. It's kind of short, but necessary. And yeah, yeah, everyone was looking forward to a big fight, but really, a sword fight? How anticlimactic. Besides, the Games have only been going for a week. I need to drag them out, at least for three or four more chapters. **

**But don't worry, I promise you an enormous, very exciting showdown between Gaston and Dylan, because hasn't most of the story been winding up to that? **

**And just wondering, who would people rather have win? Alessia or Gaston? Because the ending is kind of interchangeable, and even though it'd kind of be weird to write the whole thing in Alessia's POV and have her not win, it seems like a lot of reviewers really like Gaston. Comments on that would be appreciated. **

**Thanks to Hahukum Konn, sugarcoated, becrocks101, Seulement Moi CL, and Larcian for reviewing. **

**Thanks to everyone else for reading, too. **

**~bballgirl32~**

**P.S.- look for daily updates, or maybe updates every two days. I want this done by the end of this week, or early next week at the earliest. Updating three stories is kind of tenuous, so I'm going to get rid of this one in a big, concentrated blow. **


	14. Chapter 15

Gaston and I get back to the overhang without any interference. I almost kiss the ground in front of it because I'm so happy to be somewhere relatively safe again.

"You do realize that Dylan can't be very far off, don't you?" he asks, roughly sitting down next to me, his face twisting in pain. He looks worse now that he doesn't have to hide it.

"Um, yes," I answer, then ask, "Are you okay?"

"No," he says honestly, "I'm not. Your damn brother stole the medicine my mentor gave me for my arm, the burn across my chest hurts like hell, and all of that smoke you created did wonders for my lungs."

"I guess that's all kind of my fault," I say, ducking my head slightly.

"It's also your fault that these Games are only a day or two from being finished, so I can't be too mad at you," he says, grabbing a couple of apples and a bag of jerky from the pile in the corner. I didn't realize it before, but I'm starving. I more or less yank an apple out of his hand and take an enormous bite.

"But now you can't beat Dylan," I point out to him around my mouthful of fruit.

"That's why you're not dead," he says. "You need to figure out a way to beat him for me."

"Um. Okay." I think for a moment. There are hundreds of different things that _could _kill him. Finding something that _will _is going to be more difficult. With Gaston's condition, anything that requires a direct confrontation is out of the question. Poisoning is always a good option, especially with all of the plants here, but that'd involve getting into his food stash, which would be near impossible. We don't have arrows or any other long distance things to attack him with, so we can't do that.

That more or less leaves one option. We'd have to make a trap, one that would either kill him, or give Gaston an opportunity to do so.

Snares wouldn't work. I have no idea how to make them, and I doubt that Gaston does either, being from a fishing district. Maybe we could pull a leaf out of his mentor's book, though.

"Do you have any idea how to make nets? You know, like what Finnick did in his Games?"

"Not nearly as well as he did," says Gaston. "Besides, they'd be useless. The trees here are impossible to climb, so we'd have no way to get one on top of him."

Right. Forget about that. Um. Something else. I bite my lip and rack my brain for ideas. Then I realize that I'm looking way too much into this.

"There are several different things that _could _work," I finally say. "A trip wire, one of those holes that you dig in the ground and cover with leaves, maybe even more fire… things like that."

"Those ideas aren't bad, but I could've thought of them," Gaston says. "We need something genius, something that Dylan isn't going to see through."

"He's not that smart. We aren't going to need something genius. All of my teachers have said that I have a problem with over-thinking, but even I know that it's not necessary to do that now."

"Over-thinking? You mean like what you did with the fire?"

I grin.

"We would've gotten away on time if you hadn't gotten hurt."

He rolls his eyes.

"Next time I'll make sure to avoid that exploding panthers."

"Smart ass. I'm serious, though. All we have to do is make Dylan think that he has an opportunity to attack and use it against him."

Gaston runs a hand through his hair.

"Fine. I don't like taking chances like this, but I'm trusting you on it. What do you say we should do?"

"Um. I kind of want to make a ring of fire around him-"

"Any other ideas?" he interrupts. I glare at him.

"The fire would be the most effective, but…" I take another pause to think. "We could definitely figure out a way to alert him that we're hiding here, build some kind of platform out of wood… um, attach that to a string, pile rocks on top of it, and dump it on Dylan when he comes for us."

"That'll never work," Gaston says. "It's too easy. Besides, say that he sidesteps the rocks. Then we're dead."

"Really? It'd still be two on one. That doesn't sound like bad odds to me."

There's a moment of considering, and then Gaston shakes his head.

"I don't like this, but I'll go with it. We can start in the morning."

"Actually, I was thinking that maybe we should go after the other tributes before we get Dylan. It would be a pity if they wandered into our trap and ruined it. Besides, the Gamemakers have less chance of interfering if everyone is anticipating a huge brother-sister showdown with the heartthrob from District Four involved."

He sends me a flirtatious grin.

"Heartthrob? It sounds like you have a cute little crush."

That's reaching so far that I don't even blush.

"No offense, but you can't pass for remotely good-looking at the moment. You look like a partially cooked chicken. Now seriously, do you think we should go for the other tributes?"

He groans.

"I s'pose we should go tribute hunting tonight, hopefully without finding your temperamental big brother. Well, unless he's asleep, of course."

"I would seriously die laughing if we were that lucky," I say.

"That would make this whole thing a lot easier," he mutters. Then he takes a deep breath and continues, "You do realize that if we go tribute hunting now and kill Dylan later, we'd end up as the final two tributes, don't you? That one of us would have to kill the other?"

"Yes, I realize that," I say, my gut twisting unpleasantly at the thought. "But then at least one of us would win."

He pauses for a moment, looks to the sky, then says, "Yeah, and I think that it'd probably be you. I'm still waiting for the Capitol to decide that I've gone too far, that it's time for me to die. I got sent here because Snow didn't want me retaliating after what happened to my father, and I doubt that he's going to let me out, not when he knows how much influence victors have."

I close my eyes. I do not want to talk about this, not now.

"Maybe he's decided to trust you and let you live," I try.

Then Gaston leans in close to me and puts his lips at my ear, saying, "Well, he shouldn't. Because if I do get out of here, I am going to make sure he's dead before the next Games begin."

He sits back, and I stare at him, not surprised, but having no idea what to say. Finally, I mutter, "You do realize that it's your fault that you're going to die in the first place."

He shrugs.

"It's better to die for something than to live for nothing."

I consider those words, but all that I can think about is Snow watching me, waiting for me to agree, to say something that would get _me _killed.

"We're talking about politics," I remind him. "I thought we made a deal to not do that."

He shifts closer to me.

"Yeah, and I didn't expect us to live this long, either," he says. Then he puts his lips to my ear again, his warm breath dancing across my skin. "You're smart, Griffin, you realize that this isn't right. I can see it. "

I don't say anything, just stay where I'm at and let him keep talking.

"That's the real reason I rescued you, because you _need _to win if I don't. I know about you, know that in two years, you're going to take over as Head of Military intelligence in District 2-"

"How do you know that?" I hiss.

"Someone told me," he hisses back. Then he takes a long puase and when he talks again, his voice is so soft that it's more like he's breathing than actually speaking. "Do you know that that's the only _real _military force the Capitol has? Do you understand how much help you could give the rebels if you joined them?"

"I have no reason to," I whisper back.

" Look around you. Isn't this reason enough?"

"The Games are our fault," I argue weakly.

"You know better than that. Stop rationalizing everything Snow does so that it fits what your mother told you. Think for yourself for once."

The stick-thin kids from 11 and 12. The working conditions in District 4 that Gaston says have caused people to lose limbs. The way that the citizens of the Capitol laugh at children getting slaughtered.

I take a shaky breath, because I know that it _is _wrong. Accepting it is a totally different matter.

"Please promise me that you'll consider helping out the rebels if I don't make it," he breaths. He leans back so that he can look me straight in the eye. "Please, _Alessia._"

I think of all of the kids who have already died in the Games. Gaston's pretty sure that he's going to be added to that list, too. If he isn't, chances are that I will be.

That many kids… dead. Never coming back. For no real reason.

I take a shaky breath.

Then, no matter how stupid it is, I whisper, "I promise."

A part of me hopes that it will be irrelevant. Another part whispers that I can go back on that promise as soon as the Games are done. But the biggest part is screaming that if I do manage to get out of this, I'll have to do everything in my power to avenge Gaston, and maybe even Dylan.

Gaston lets out a sigh of relief and whispers a thank you.

I look between him and his blood-stained sword and wonder if any of this really matters anyway. Snow hasn't shown any signs of going after him yet, so maybe he will get a chance to win these Games.

Now that I made that promise, I'm not so sure that I don't want him to win.

**A/N- **

**Lots of talking, but important talking. And so far, I've got three reviews, two saying Gaston and one for Alessia, but if anyone else has any thoughts on who should win, please comment. **

**Look for an update Wednesday or Thursday since I have a basketball tourney tomorrow. **

**Thanks for the reviews, please review this chapter, and I'll try to post soon. **

**~bballgirl32~**

**P.S- I mentioned more frequent updates for Spreading the Fire, and now I'm biting my tongue on that because I have nasty writer's block. So to everyone who reads that, it may not be until this weekend. **

**And as for the updates for my Harry Potter story (if anyone over here even cares) that'll either be at midnight or later tonight, or at around eleven o'clock tomorrow. **


	15. Chapter 16

I try to fall asleep while we wait for night to fall, but I'm too nervous to manage it. Instead, I wind up sitting just outside the overhang and watching the sun set. Gaston is sitting just behind me, twirling a knife in his fingers whenever I look back at him, his eyes distantly focused on the gleaming silver blade.

He looks like a man on death row. Nervous. Jumpy. I wonder if he thinks that Snow heard us, or if he's more worried that the Gamemakers are going to kill him anyway.

I vaguely wonder if the President _did _hear our conversation. I know how powerful some listening devices are, but could they pick up a whispered conversation that even I had to struggle to hear? Would Snow even have that kind of technology installed throughout the arena?

Then again, I don't think that I have much to worry about if they did hear. I defended the Capitol through the whole thing, and my promise was grudging at best. Would Snow see that? Would he remember all those letters I wrote to him, or think of my sixteen years of training to serve him, and realize how much more likely it is that I just wanted to lower the chances of Gaston killing me than actually joining the rebellion?

I'd hope that he would. It would be common sense. No one from District 2 should want to rebel, especially not me.

Hell, I really, really shouldn't want to rebel. I have _everything_. What am I thinking?

I take a deep breath and remember the thousands who are dead because of the Capitol. That's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking that I should fight someone else's battle because they can't fight it themselves.

Is that bad? Stupid? Do I really care that much in the first place?

I probably don't care at all. I probably just didn't want Gaston to knife me. That's the only reason I would promise him anything.

Right?

I shake my head. This is stupid and probably irrelevant. I'll think about it when I get out of the Games. If I get out at all. I'm not even sure if I want out, because then I'd have to go and play rebel without having any idea what I'm doing.

I wonder if Snow would actually let Gaston out, if I decided to let him win or something. If he heard that conversation earlier, probably not. Unless, of course, he had other plans for him. I know Snow, I've been taught his methods, and I know that he likes inflicting psychological pain more than anything. So maybe he'd leave Gaston alive, then make his life hell.

I don't want that either.

Maybe Dylan should win. He'd be the happiest. He wouldn't be dragged into any rebel schemes, wouldn't be tortured by Snow. All he would do was get his moment of glory.

And the rebellion wouldn't be helped at all.

I sigh. There's no way that I'm going to work this out now. It'll be easier to just play the Games until the end, and then let whoever wins win.

The anthem starts blaring, and I can feel Gaston walk out of the cave behind me. The face of the boy from 12 appears and fades. The only death today.

"I take that as our cue to start hunting," says Gaston from behind me.

I yawn. It's late, and Dylan had me up all of last night, too. I really don't want to hunt.

"I guess," I say, bending over and picking up my knife.

Gaston double-checks that he has his own sword, then sticks an extra knife in his belt.

"I'm not brining a bag," he says. "There's enough water here that we won't go thirsty, and I can kill something with my knife if we don't get back to the shelter right away. I don't want to lug that thing around."

"You're sure?"

"Positive," he says, rolling his eyes as though there's absolutely no reason why I should be questioning him.

I hesitate, still not liking the idea of having no food or water with us, but Gaston is already gone. I groan, then run to catch up to him with a huff. He looks back at me like he didn't just start leaving without me.

"Three left other than your brother and us?" he asks.

I nod.

"And they all have to be on this side of the mountains if they want any food or fresh water at all. That's not too much ground to search."

I give him a look, and say "At least four square miles."

He laughs.

"That just means that we'd better get searching, don't you think?"

So we search. And we search. And we search.

There's no Dylan, no other tributes, no nobody. It seems like the arena has suddenly become totally empty, and the feeling makes my chest go hollow with fear.

"Are there any mutts around?" I whisper. Gaston shakes his head.

"You hear the bugs and the birds?" he asks. I nod. "They'd stop if anything unnatural was coming. Right now you're just scared because it's so dark."

And it is, unfortunately. Very, very dark.

"Then why are we out in the middle of the night if it's so scary and dark?" I ask him.

"Because it's when tributes are sleeping, which is why you should also shut your mouth so that they stay sleeping."

I clamp my jaw shut. We continue walking, scanning every inch of the arena in an area that's at least two miles wide.

The sun is just starting to rise when Gaston grabs my arm and yanks me to a stop.

I listen, but don't hear anything.

Then he points. I look up, biting my lip when I see a boy sleeping in one of the lower trees. He can't be any older than thirteen or fourteen, and I'm guessing that he's probably been hiding out for the entire Games. I'm not even sure what District he's from.

"He's sleeping," I mutter. "Can't you just leave him alone?"

"I'm guessing that we're going to get him, or your brother is. Take your pick, Griffin."

_So he calls me Griffin unless he wants something from me. _

"Fine," I say. "Go ahead."

Gaston tries to creep over to the boy, his knife in his hand, clearly not planning on even waking him, but then a bird caws and the boy jerks up, his eyes widening dramatically when he sees Gaston.

"N-No. P-p-please, d-d-don't k-k-kill m-me," he mutters, clutching his branch tightly.

I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to see that boy's terrified face.

"I'm sorry," Gaston says. "But I have to."

He raises his knife to throw it, but the boy rolls out of the tree, screaming his head off, then balling when he lands awkwardly on the forest floor. He tries to back away, but there's something very wrong with his leg, and all that he does is let loose another blood curdling scream.

Gaston easily drags the screaming boy to his feet, pulls his arms back, and gives him a blinding kick to the back. I whimper at the sound of a deafening snap, cringing away when I see the awkward angle of the now dead boy's spine. A cannon booms immediately.

"Did you have to break his back?"

"It would've been painless," he says, backing away from the other boy and dusting off his hands. "If I were to throw a knife at him, or stab him with my sword, he'd have felt it."

I look at the little boy, who looks like he was broken in half.

"For what? Two seconds. He could have managed."

Gaston's face darkens.

"I don't _like _killing people. Just because you're squeamish doesn't mean that I should make it any harder for myself."

"Sorry. It's just-" I start.

"Gruesome," he finishes.

A hovercraft arrives, and in an instant, it's like the broken boy wasn't there at all.

Gaston sighs. "And now it's gone. We're going to stick around for a moment, though. If his screaming didn't draw someone else in, then that hovercraft would have."

He's right. The boy from Seven pokes his head through a tree not ten feet away only five minutes later, and Gaston sticks a sword through his gut.

The cannon booms.

Twenty down. Four to go.

We wait to see if anyone else comes, but Dylan is probably too far away, and whoever else is left is smart enough not to show up.

After waiting for an hour, we leave.

Gaston and I stop by a stream for a quick drink, but he presses me into ignore my grumbling stomach, saying that we need to find a temporary shelter.

Eventually we stumble across a bunch of mossy green trees that have fallen together into a makeshift kind of cave. Gaston checks to make sure no one is inside, then jumps back when he a cat-like thing comes jumping out.

He reflexively raises his sword and ends up stabbing it through with the sharp blade. He holds it up and smirks.

"Look. Our hotel even comes with supper," he drawls amusedly. I freeze, looking at the bloody creature, taking in the beady black eyes that are staring at me.

"Is it going to explode?" I ask.

He glances at it, waits for a moment, then shrugs.

"Apparently not. It's just a normal bobcat. Come on, we can split it."

I pause, waiting for the punch line. He doesn't say anything.

"Wait," I say. "You're serious."

Then he starts laughing, long and loud.

"Of course I'm serious. Come on, we'll cook it over a fire, and it'll taste better than any of the jerky we've been eating."

I look to the sky.

"Sponsors?"

Nothing.

"I'm not hungry," I mutter, my stomach growling as I do so.

Gaston laughs and peels the bobcat off of his sword.

"You are such a girl," he says, holding the thing up by the scruff of its neck and studying it. "It isn't even that bad. Kind of cute, really."

"B-but it's bloody."

Then he reaches into the gaping wound in the bobcat's side and holds up a finger drenched with blood and other… stuff.

"What are you doing?" I ask, nervous and disgusted.

Before I have a chance to escape, he runs that finger down my face.

I jump backwards and start shrieking in horror.

"Ew, ew, you are _so _disgusting!"

"You're bloody, and you still look perfectly edible," he says, his smirk growing. I continue to glare at him, not willing to speak, because that would involve moving my face, and I don't want the blood to spread. He holds up his hands in defeat. "Okay, fine. Follow me. I'll find you a river. God knows that you need a bath anyway."

Says the guy who's covered in ash and scaly burns and more blood than I am. Ugh, he is such a jerk.

I still hurry after him. It doesn't take very long to find a small stream, and the both of us jump in. The cool water feels amazing, and I close my eyes in delight as I feel all of the soot and filth being washed from my hair and face. Gaston only stays in for a few minutes, then takes the time to gut the bobcat while I finish bathing.

Afterwards we return to the cave-like structure, and Gaston works to start a fire while I collect raspberries from a bush a few yards off. In less than a half hour, he has a decent sized blaze going. I watch on in amusement as he stabs the bobcat with his sword and starts roasting it over the fire.

Ten minutes later, I will admit that the meat doesn't look that bad (although he's mangled it enough that it almost looks like pulled pork), and actually smells really good.

"See?" said Gaston, his eyes flashing with amusement as he watches me drift closer. "Any dish can be prepared well with an amazing cook.

"Just hurry up and finish it," I say. "I don't want any guests for the meal."

"Oh, come on," he says, cursing when a piece of the mangled cat falls into the fire. "I am anticipating guests. If your brother or whoever else is left decides to investigate, it'll make the Games a lot shorter."

"Unless Dylan investigates with his arrows."

Gaston shrugs.

"It'll still make the Games shorter, although not in the way I would like. Besides, he tends to lean towards the melodramatic, don't you think? I'd have to really piss him off before he misses the opportunity to really fight with me."

"Maybe," I say, not as sure as him.

As it is, he finishes cooking the bobcat without Dylan or the other tribute popping up, and we take turns peeling the not too burnt pieces off of his sword and eating them (I almost gag throughout the entire meal). We split the raspberries for dessert, snacking on them until the sun is high in the sky, signalling that it's at least noon.

By that time, the both of us our extremely tired. We retreat into the shelter that the fallen trees provide for us, and I lean my head on his shoulder, falling asleep immediately.

…

The boom of a cannon blasting wakes me up, and I jerk forward. Gaston puts a hand on my shoulder to keep me from getting up.

"It's dark. You won't be able to see the hovercraft."

"Dark? How long did I sleep?"

"Probably ten hours."

I groan.

"I'm sorry. You need the sleep more than I do."

"Don't worry," he says, rolling his eyes. "I dozed off several times, unfortunately."

"Nice to know how well my guardian angel is looking out for me." He ruffles my hair.

"You're alive, aren't you?"

"Luckily," I mutter, even though I can't help but smile. Gaston grins back, then looks to the sky and groans.

"Do you think there's chance that your macho brother got himself offed?" he asks.

"None at all," I sigh.

He pushes himself to his feet and holds out a hand to help me up. I take it.

"Then let's get going," he says, yanking me off the ground. "I think something in my arm is getting infected, and I might as well fight him when it's completely numb instead of falling off."

"Yeah," I say, focusing very hard on looking everywhere but his left arm. "Let's do that."

He grins at my discomfort.

"Don't worry. There's only a little pus. But I do want to stop back at the overhang and bandage it. It'll be more comfortable that way."

I blanch.

"You look pale, Griffin. Do you have any wounds I don't know about?"

No, I don't. Because he's taken all of the beatings for me.

"Thanks to you, I don't," I say sincerely. "Because you kind of _have _been my guardian angel. Honestly."

His joking smirk fades.

"It's no problem. Really," he says, even though it clearly is, and he might die because of it.

I push that thought away as we start back the way we came. At first we attempt lighthearted banter, but the knowledge that our time in the arena is so short quickly leads us into dead silence.

We're only five minutes from the overhang when Gaston grabs my arm to stop me. I slowly turn around to face him, looking down at my feet when I see the pained look in his eyes. For a moment I wonder if he's not just going to kill me now, to make it easier, but then he takes a strangled breath.

"I just wanted you to know that whatever happens, this partnership wasn't just for my convenience," he says, and I can feel him looking straight at me, waiting for me to look up. I can't manage it. I don't cry, and I don't _think _that he's going to make me cry, but I still don't want this to be any harder than it has to be. "You've become… tolerable over the past week."

I swallow, my eyes still at my feet.

"If," he starts, his breathing growing ragged. "If we kill Dylan, and we're the last two left, I'm not going to pretend that I won't try to kill you."

He's on the brink of tears. I may not be looking, but I can hear it in his choked, strangled voice.

"But," he continues, "but I want you to know that I respect you, and genuinely like you, and if you do end up winning, I'll be glad. And… if I do kill you, it's probably going to be the biggest regret that I'll ever have. But you know that reason that I have to, don't you?"

Because friendship only goes so far in the arena.

"I understand," I say hoarsely. "And… and if I survive, I swear that I'm going to _do _that thing that we talked about. No matter what.

Gaston reaches up and puts a hand on my cheek, and I finally look up, letting his eyes bore straight into mine. I see pain and fear, sorrow, regret. But anticipation, too, and fierce determination, mingled with hate.

It's the first time that he's ever shown exactly what he was feeling, and it makes me sick knowing that someone who feels so much has to die for me to live.

"Thank you," he says hoarsely. "For everything." Then he leans forward and kisses me on the forehead before stepping back. "Now come on. Let's get this thing over with."

The two of us continue on to the overhang, the landscape becoming more and more familiar as we go.

I push the last curtain of vines aside, my mouth already opened to tell Gaston to hurry up. Then I freeze in place.

My brother is lounging against the back of the stone wall, his sword raised, blue eyes sparkling gleefully.

**A/N- **

**Bwahahahahahaha. Don't you all just love cliffhangers? **

**Okay, I've had a couple people comment about how Snow would've heard their conversation, but Alessia provided excellent reasons as to why that wouldn't necessarily be the end of the world for either of them. Besides, Snow isn't all-knowing, anyway. Katniss even said that he didn't have the walkway from Victor's Village to District 12's town bugged, and a bunch of scared little kids have nothing on Katniss Everdeen. Just saying.**

**Also, I **_**think **_**I know who I'm picking, even though I've had several good arguments. Seeing if Alessia would fulfill her promise has quite a few people going for her, and as YellowTurnip said, her interactions with the other characters would be more interesting than Gaston's, since you already know all of them. Yet it sounds like almost everyone likes Gaston more, and he does have better odds at winning. **

**Keeping those things in mind, any other opinions are appreciated if you want one last pitch for a certain candidate. **

**And it's extremely unlikely that I'll pull a Katniss, even though I would love to. Unless I decide for this to become AU, and make Alessia the rebel leader instead of Katniss, and then make a huge sequel that would be like Mockingjay except totally different…. That would actually be kind of intereseting. If anyone has comments on that, I'd appreciate it. No promises, but that'd be a possibility. **

**If not, then the winner will be….. Yeah, not telling. **

**Oh, and please review. I got SEVEN last chapter, which is the most I've gotten since the first chapter. So keep being awesome. Please. **

**~bballgirl32~ **


	16. Chapter 17

My brother's lips curl up into a wolfish smile when he sees me, and I back up right into the wall.

"I was wondering if you were going to come back. Actually, if you would've been a couple hours later, I might have been gone. Then again, Dad has always said that patience is a virtue."

I take a shaky breath, look at Dylan, take in his laughing eyes, his handsome face, the golden hair that I've always been kind of jealous of. For the first time, I notice how blue his eyes are. More than our mother's. So blue that they seem to sizzle.

My fingers tighten around my knife.

"Thanks for waiting around. Now I can get out of here sooner," I say, trying to force my own smile. It doesn't work.

Something ominous starts cawing outside. Goosebumps prickle across my arms.

"You don't have a chance, Ally," he laughs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gaston hold up his sword.

Dylan's smile gets bigger. A part of me thinks that Gaston actually gulps, but I'm not paying enough attention to tell for sure. Dylan isn't hurt, and even if Gaston wasn't, my brother has fifty pounds on him. At least.

Then I notice that Dylan isn't even ready to fight. His sword is in his left hand, and he's got his right hand bracing himself back against the wall, mostly hidden behind his back. I bite my lip just as I hear another caw ring from outside.

There's something going on.

"You want to swordfight now?" he asks. "With my baby sister standing there, holding a knife? I'm not stupid. I came prepared this time."

He came prepared?

My eyes flash to his hidden right hand, see the back of a knife hilt just as he lifts his hand in one smooth movement and throws the knife.

A scream builds in my throat, and for some reason I expect Dylan to go with his melodramatic side, to take out me so that he can fight with Gaston. Instead the knife flies past my ear and plants itself in Gaston's stomach, sending him crumpling to the ground. His sword falls out of his hand, but I don't bother to grab it. Instead I'm out of the cave the moment that the knife hits him, getting a small headstart while Dylan is taking a moment to bask in his victory.

Another caw. I yelp, having to choose between Dylan and whatever kind of mutant bird is flying around.

I sprint forward clumsily, choosing the bird.

Dylan's footsteps approach, only seconds after me.

He'll catch me any second if I keep trying to run, so I throw myself behind a tree, knowing that he can't see me and hoping that he'll be dumb enough to continue on.

For a moment he keeps forcing his way through the tightly packed trees, but then he must realize that I've stopped moving, and the sound of his footsteps dies down completely.

He has to be listening for me, and my thudding heart sounds way too loud, even in all the noise of the jungle.

_**CAW! CAW! **_

Damn. That bird is going to do something to me if I don't hurry up.

I start creeping back in the direction of the overhang as silently as I can, my knife still raised. Maybe, maybe if I make it back to the overhang, the giant bird I keep hearing will kill Dylan and I'll win.

I'm almost there when I step out from behind a tree and end up five feet away from my brother's back.

Two things happen at once. He hears me and starts turning, and I chuck my knife at his back.

Things start going in slow motion.

The knife spins until the hilt is facing Dylan's back, and it bounces right off him.

He laughs, his sword up and ready to strike.

My eyes focus on a dog-sized parrot that's sitting in the tree behind him.

His sword starts swinging, and then the parrot takes off with another caw.

Dylan must sense it near, because he spins to face it, and I use the opportunity to sprint in the direction of the overhang, away from him, praying that the stupid parrot will just finish him off.

It doesn't work. He's after me a moment later, and I know that the parrot is dead, and then Dylan must just ditch his sword and decide to get it over with, because he's flying through the air and tackling me to the ground. My leg crunches sickeningly underneath me, and I let out a blood curling scream as _fire _erupts through that leg.

My brother's sick, twisted laughter mingles with my screaming, and I start crying because I know that it's finished, that he's going to win the Games.

I squeeze my eyes shut, just wanting it to be over.

Then something warm and sticky is falling in my face, and I open my eyes and see Dylan's eyes looking down at me, wide open in shock and completely empty. A bright red line smiles at me from across his throat, and the sound of heavy, hoarse breathing reaches my ears.

My eyes flit to the side and see Gaston kneeling beside me, his stomach saturated with blood, his eyes slightly unfocused, the hand holding his knife shaking so badly that I'm surprised he managed to slit Dylan's throat at all.

Heart thudding, stomach squeezing painfully, my left hand finds the knife that Dylan was using. His fingers are still curled around it.

Gaston takes a shaky, gurgling breath, and his shaking hand lifts into the air.

And I use all of my strength to roll my enormous brother off on top of Gaston. A sound escapes his mouth, something between a gurgle and a pain-filled scream, and I swear that I'm going to throw up because I don't want to do this, I want to do anything but this, but now that I think about it, I don't want to lose, and I've come too far to not lose, so I force myself into a sitting position, feeling so, so sick, my leg screaming and burning-

Then I pitch forward, holding out the knife, and drive it in the direction of Gaston's face.

The blade of my knife disappears into his eye socket with a loud _squish_, just as I lean into the knife in Gaston's hand and it cuts deep down into my side.

It hurts, hurts so bad that I swear that I'm dead, and I want to scream, or cry, or something, but no words are coming out, and something that sounds like cannons are firing in the background, and then I can vaguely hear, "I am pleased to present the victor of the 71st Hunger Games, Alessia Griffin."

I black out from the pain a moment later.

**A/N- **

**Please don't be mad. Alessia really did have too much background to kill her off. So, sorry, no Gaston, and this isn't going to have a sequel either, so there'll be one or two more chapters, and it's all done. **

**Good? Bad? It's super, super short, but I figured that any long, dramatic conversations would be unrealistic, so I settled for the few words and a surprise attack from Dylan, which, with all of his training, would probably be something that was drilled into his head. Anyhow, please comment. **

**Thanks to all of my awesome reviewers. **

**~bballgirl32~ **


	17. Chapter 18

_Rough, calloused hands brushing my bruised neck. Turning around, scared, holding up a knife._

_"Really? You're going to stab me with a fucking butter knife?" he asks, dark eyes twinkling with amusement. He steps closer. Bickering. Glaring. The sting of betrayal. He reaches up and runs his hands over my bruises again, speaking softly. "A real moron wouldn't call their brother nice after he strangled them."_

_"I would be crazy to trust you."_

_"But you have to, don't you?"_

_"Fine. I'll be your ally."_

_"Alright. We got ourselves a deal."_

_…_

_An arena, beautiful and deadly, filled with color. Sitting under a rock overhang and watching the face of a dead girl fade away._

_"Well, as entertaining as that was, I believe that we need some much needed rest."_

_"Rest? But shouldn't one of us stand guard?"_

_"Over here? Nah. No tributes are over here, and if any man-eating mutts come this way, they'll probably be noisy enough to wake me up."_

_"Are you sure?" I ask him, skeptical._

_"Positive. Now come on. You might as well provide body heat, seeing as you aren't doing anything else."_

_I hesitate._

_"I'm not going to kill you yet," he says. "Now, come on. We're getting up early tomorrow, and I don't want you bitching because you didn't get enough sleep."_

_"I wouldn't-" I start._

_"Just lay down," he interrupts. I listen. "See? You aren't even dead yet."_

_"Yet," I tell him. He chuckles and throws the blanket over us. Warmth, protection from bugs, and the smell of grass and sweat. I curl up next to Gaston and almost feel safe._

_…_

_Fire, climbing behind us. Smoke brushing our necks._

_"Gaston. You don't think that it's going to burn more than just the shoreline, do you?"_

_"As in, 'do I think it's going to come up the mountain'? Let me just tell you, if it does, you'd better pray that it takes everyone else out before it gets near us."_

_"I probably should have thought of that before."_

_"No shit," he snaps, drawing his sword. I flinch back, sure that he's going to kill me for it, but he chuckles instead. "Damnit, Griffin. I thikn that you know I could take you out whenever I want. I don't need to yet."_

_And then he risks his life to save mine. _

_…_

_Sheer terror. Bright blue eyes. Getting ready to die. Then he comes. Defends me. Protects me. Asks for me back._

_"You don't want anything other than my stupid little sister?" Dylan asks. _

_"Stupid? I don't think you have any right to be insulting anyone else's intelligence."_

_"JUST ANSWER MY QUESTION!"_

_Gaston's smirk gets bigger, his dark eyes dancing with amusement._

_"Fine. I don't want anything other than your sister. Her and only her."_

_…_

_Arguing. Pleading. A rough, accented voice breathing words into my ear._

_"Please promise me that you'll consider helping out the rebels if I don't make it." Midnight colored eyes meet mine. "Please, Alessia."_

_Shattered, frantic thoughts. Images of dying, bloody, emancipated children. _

_"I promise."_

_…_

_"I just wanted you to know, that whatever happens, this partnership wasn't just for my convenience. You've become… tolerable over the past week."_

_"If," he rasps, his breathing growing ragged. "If we kill Dylan, and we're the last two left, I'm not going to pretend that I won't try to kill you."_

_He's on the brink of tears. I may not be looking, but I can hear it in his choked, strangled voice._

_"But," he continues, "but I want to know that I respect you, and genuinely like you, and if you do end up winning, I'll be glad. And… if I do kill you… it's probably going to be the biggest regret that I'll ever have. But you know that reason that I have to, don't you?"_

_"I understand," I say hoarsely. "And… and if I survive, I swear that I'm going to do that thing that we talked about. No matter what._

_A warm hand on my cheek, his eyes looking into mine. Filled with pain and fear, sorrow, regret, anticipation and determination, and even hate._

_"Thank you," he says hoarsely. "For everything." Then he leans forward and kisses me on the forehead before stepping back. "Now come on. Let's get this thing over with." _

_…_

_Dylan, on top of me. Suffocating me. Pain in my leg, my eyes squeezed shut._

_Then blood, falling into my face. Dylan's throat, slit open. Gaston kneeling beside me, half dead, clearly in pain._

_Not thinking clearly. Find the knife. A hand raises. His left one. A hand to protect himself. Not to kill._

_I throw Dylan at him, and he lets out the most terrible sound that I will ever hear. Then I force myself up, bite back terrible, sickening pain, and fall into him._

_The silver knife blade disappears into his eye socket. Any other place wouldn't have worked, I was too weak. I didn't aim for there. I just lunged. And it hit the worse spot._

_The knife in his right hand, the hand at his side, stabs me, and then there's nothing but pain, and a voice announcing that I won._

He wasn't going to kill me. I killed him. He deserved to win.

Why did I kill him?

Why? Why in the hell did I do it? I didn't really even _want _him to die. I had no reason to. He was going to let me live anyway. I didn't have to kill him. He didn't deserve it. He had just saved my life. And I shoved a knife through his eye.

"Alessia, calm down. It's okay. You're safe."

I jerk up in my bed at the sound of the voice, drenched in sweat, and my heart pounding a million miles an hour. Lyme is standing over me, her dark eyes watching me carefully.

"I- did- I won," I choke out, the words sounding foreign on my tongue. My voice is scratchy and hollow, and my entire body is stiff, but I feel completely fine other than that.

"Clearly," Lyme says, but I can just barley make out a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

I don't know what to say. I don't feel like celebrating. I feel like going back in time, like pressing a rewind button and letting myself wait. Wait for Gaston to do whatever it was that he was going to do, to say something, to die. Or maybe go back so that I can kill myself before he dies naturally. Because any of those things would be better than what had actually happened.

"What did I do?" I moan, falling back onto the bed and squeezing my eyes shut, even though I know for a fact that even sleep won't make thoughts of the Games go away.

I feel a light pressure on my hand, and when I peel my eyes open, I see Lyme regarding me with unflinching eyes. She knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"Your tibia and fibula were both snapped. Your face was covered in your older brother's blood, and a person who you knew to be dangerous was kneeling beside you with a knife. You did what anyone would do," she says firmly.

I shake my head.

"Not anyone," I mutter. "Not anyone decent, anyway."

"Sometimes, when you're a Victor, you get to bend the definition of decency. You'll drive yourself crazy if you don't."

"That doesn't help much."

She smirks.

"Would lying to you help more?"

It wouldn't, and I know it, but I don't answer because I wish she did lie to me. I wish that she told me that I was decent, that the entire Gaston thing was just one big misunderstanding, but then again, it's not like I would have been fooled in the first place.

"That's what I thought," she says. Then she looks at a watch on her arm and sighs. "You should rest. They've already had to push the concluding ceremonies back two weeks-"

"TWO WEEKS!"

There's no way that I've been out for two weeks. It's impossible. Impossible.

"You had internal damage from Gaston's knife, and your leg was in horrible condition. It was easier for the staff to keep you under until your injuries healed, due to the fact that most victors enjoy harming themselves after they come out of the arena."

"I can see why," I mutter.

She clears her throat.

"As I was saying, they don't want to wait any longer. The recap is tonight. Caddie will collect you in approximately three hours. I will see you then." She starts to leave, and then stops and says, "And Alessia?"

"Yeah?"

"Good job."

Then she's gone, and I'm left alone in a dull white hospital with nothing to do except think of Gaston and Dylan and try not to be sick.

**A/N-**

** Sorry this was so short, but I wanted to make the next chapter the last one. Hopefully. I'll try to get that up within a couple of days. **

**Thanks to all of my wonderful reviewers, and I hope the hear from you all again. **

**~bballgirl32~**


	18. Chapter 19

I stare at myself in the mirror, try to ignore Medea looking proudly over my shoulder. I really didn't loose any weight in the arena, my face, my arms, everything has been healed up perfectly. There is absolutely no sign that I am not the same girl who left District 2 over a month ago.

A month. One out of the hundred and ninety seven that I've lived. And yet, it seems like none of my life outside of those four weeks matter at all.

"Are you almost ready?" Medea asks.

The girl in the mirror turns to look at her, shimmering silver dress catching the light and refracting it in a dozen different directions.

"No," I answer dully, truthfully. I don't want to see _him _again. He already haunts my dreams, already whispers in my ear, asks me why I did it, why I killed him.

Now I'm going to see him die again, going to hear that terrible sound he made when I pushed Dylan into his stomach. After he held up his left hand. Innocently. Telling me to wait. His knife was at his side. He'd wanted to say something, to surrender, by the look on his face.

And I stabbed him in the eye socket.

Tears threaten, and I blink to hold them back. I don't think I'd ever cried before this Games, and now it seems like I've been spending the last three hours doing nothing but trying not to cry.

"You'll be fine," says Medea. "Caesar won't ask many questions if he sees that you're uncomfortable, and watching the Games again will be interesting."

Interesting. Says someone who wasn't in the Games. Says someone who is from the Capitol.

I hate them. All of them. I can't believe I didn't see it before.

"Of course," I answer dully.

Then Medea leads me through several long hallways, down a few sets of stairs, until we're in a small area underneath what will be the main stage. Lyme is already waiting there, and I want to talk to her, but she's already having a conversation with Brutus, who looks kind of dead.

Brutus. My brother's mentor.

Images of them laughing and joking together fly through my head, and I close my eyes to force them away.

"Are you going to be okay?" asks Medea.

"Fine," I say. I don't feel fine. I feel dead. Sick. Like I want to run off into the mountains that surround the Capitol and never come out again.

"Good," she says, then goes off to change into her own costume, leaving me by myself.

I pace back and forth for a while, trying to ignore the rumbling of the crowd, the nervous twisting in my stomach that's nearly as bad as it was before I entered the arena.

It isn't long before I'm ushered over to a metal circle and told to wait there.

The anthem booms in my ears, and then Caesar Flickerman's voice starts greeting the audience. Then my prep team is presented, and the crowd breaks into polite applause. Caddie is introduced after them, and the thought of her bouncing up and down happily on stage helps me to relax.

Medea is next, and Lyme is raised onto the stage after her. The applause gets slightly louder, but the audience is waiting for the actual victor.

Caesar does a small introduction, and then my platform is lifting me up. Before I can even brace myself, thousands, tens of thousands, of Capitol people are screaming and cheering for me. The sound nearly bowls me over. The opening ceremonies were nothing compared to this, and I'm not anywhere near prepared for the feeling of all of those eyes, all of those cameras, focused on me and me alone.

My face turns beet red, my eyes fix desperately on the metal plate at my feet, willing it to descend back into the ground, but I'm forced to stay right where I am for five, ten, minutes until Caesar finally encourages the audience to settle down.

Once things are quiet, I'm taken to the victor's chair, an ornate chair with a red velvet cushion in the middle. It's from there where victors are forced to relive the Games.

Caesar cracks a couple of jokes, and then the lights dim and the Capitol seal flashes across a giant screen like the ones located in District Two's city square.

My hands clench tightly into fists as I see Dylan and me standing together on our chariots, but it's nothing compared to the wallop in the gut I take when they show District Four's.

Gaston is smirking, looking twice as amazing as I remember him, something in his posture, in his dark eyes, convincing everyone that there was no way he couldn't win the Games because he was so alive, because someone with those daring eyes and infectious smile couldn't possibly, ever, die.

Except he did die. Because of me.

My eyes close, and I take a shaky breath, thankful that he's gone when I open them again.

After the chariot rides they show my training score and interview. Even my own attitude makes me sick now that I see how annoying I was acting, and a part of me can't blame Dylan for wanting me dead.

Then we're in the arena, and they're showing detailed coverage of the bloodbath. Gaston gets out of there as soon as he can, but Dylan stays behind, mowing down at least half the tributes that died there, before running off with his Career buddies.

After that the filmmakers basically alternate between footage of me, and tributes dying. They show Gaston and I plan, show me and him spraying the bug spray, and make a big deal about our first fight with Byre.

Every time they show his face, his smile, his dark eyes, I feel more and more angry and more and more sick. With myself. With the Capitol. With him, for dying in the first place.

Why didn't he just let Dylan kill me? My brother obviously didn't even know Gaston was there. If he would have just let Dylan take me out, he could have killed Dylan, and I wouldn't be having to live through this terrible, burning, unbearable, guilt right now.

Then they show the roaring fire, and it's horrifying because they have to show every single tribute burning to death. I hadn't even thought of their deaths before because I didn't cause them directly, but now every single one of them is seared into my brain. That's seven families, watching their children burn to death, because of me.

I bite my lip as they show mine and Dylan's argument about how I've stolen everything from him, and by the time that Gaston comes to rescue me, I'm so messed up that I'm hardly even watching anymore.

They show the next three kills, and then… then they show Gaston's speech to me.

I bury my face in my hands, but that does nothing because I can still hear his voice, his distinct quiet, rough, accented voice that I'm never going to hear again. My hands go to my ears instead, but they've got the stupid thing turned up so loud that his words go straight through them, and then I'm trying to tear my ears out, ignoring the fact that I'm on national television, before it shows Gaston kissing me on the forehead and I collapse back into my seat, too hurt to keep fighting it.

The Games narrow down quickly after that. Us meeting Dylan. Gaston getting the knife in his gut. And the long chase, ending with my brother on top of me.

I know what's coming next, and I know that this is where I need to run, to hide, to get away from the stupid screen, but instead I can only watch in fascination as Gaston drags himself over to us. As he slits Dylan's throat.

My eyes go wide on screen as my brother's blood starts falling into my face, running down my cheeks and onto the ground.

They get even bigger when I turn my head enough to see Gaston there, breathing shallowly, his face contorted in pain.

My heart stops beating when I see myself reach for Dylan's knife. Gaston saw it, too. That's why he raised his hand. His left hand. The hand with nothing in it.

I thought he was raising a knife, but now it's obvious. His knife was at his side. In his right hand.

His lips move just a little bit, and I let out a wretched sob because I hadn't seen that before, hadn't know he actually did have something to say. Then I'm heaving Dylan on top of him, and his pain-filled cry rings through my ears, and I'm pitching forward, aiming somewhere on his face, and my knife disappears into his eye socket just as his knife, his lowered knife, plunges into my stomach.

Then the anthem is playing again, and Lyme gestures me to get to my feet. I numbly force myself to stand up, trying to ignore the painful emptiness in my chest that came from that last scene, and give a horribly fake smile to Snow when he places a crown on my head.

He beams at me and quietly says, "I'm hoping you will still be available to lead my military. It would be so pleasurable to work with you."

"Of course," I say numbly, because it's what I need to say, and then he's gone, and I'm forced to bow and wave until Caesar bids the audience good night and reminds them to tune in for the final interview tomorrow.

The Victory Banquet after that flashes by in a blur. I'm already sick, and the smell of too many people, of Capitol perfumes, and alcohol makes focusing impossible. Dozens of people, Capitol officials, sponsors, everyone, sweeps me aside for picture after picture. President Snow has another small talk with me, but he must see that I'm still reeling from my experience in the arena, because he leaves soon afterwards.

Then Lyme must see that I can't last any longer, because she lugs me back to the Training Center while callously apologizing to angry Capitol people.

I return to my room immediately, but the thousands of Capitol people, all the dead tributes, and the faces of two boys, both of them brothers to me in very different ways, won't leave me alone.

My entire night is spent tossing and turning, and wishing that Gaston was the one who was still alive.

**Wow. Sorry this is so late, but I had really bad writer's block on the very end. And obviously there'll be one more chapter, since I wanted to get this updated before I forgot completely. **

**Thanks for the reviews, and I hope you enjoyed it. **


	19. Chapter 20

My final interview is held in the sitting room of my floor in the Remake Center the next day. Caesar must sense that I don't want to talk about Dylan or Gaston, because he hardly mentions them in his questioning, instead focusing on what he calls my 'genius' plan.

The entire interview centers on how I tricked the other tributes into thinking I was stupid, then used my intelligence to do what none of them would have expected. Even though the interview is quick and doesn't go into any real detail, I still can't help but see the burning bodies they showed yesterday, the screaming kids, and pain-filled faces.

When it's over, I retreat into my room and bury my face in my pillow until Lyme tells me that it's time to leave.

The ride home to the Capitol is quick and strangely anticlimactic. A part of me knows that I should be thrilled to see my parents again, but I don't want to go home. I will admit that I do want to see my mother, but I know my father is going to be pissed at me for coming home instead of Dylan.

Besides, my home reeks of my brother. From his weight room to weapons that are scattered everywhere, there is no way that I'm not going to be reminded of him.

Of him throwing me to the ground, of my leg snapping underneath him, of the red smile on his throat, and the feeling of drowning in his blood…

"Alessia," Lyme says, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I would be more okay if I let Gaston live," I say again. Because it's true. And I can't stop saying it and can't stop thinking it and can't stop hating myself because of it.

"You can't change it now," she says, her voice sounding gentle for once. She sits down beside me and leans in closely, like she's telling me something extremely important. "If anything, don't waste his life. You killed him so you could get home, and there's nothing you can do about it, but don't spend the rest of your life wishing you could go back and change it. That's just about the worst thing you can do for him."

I know she's right, and I am not planning on sitting around and feeling sorry for myself. I'm planning on fulfilling my promise, and that's suicidal enough that it'll probably get me killed anyway.

"Okay," I say. "I'll try."

An hour later, the train pulls into District 2's station. Cameras are swarming around, and people are everywhere, but I don't care about most of them. My eyes scan the platform for a head of golden blonde hair, blonde hair like Dylan's, and blue eyes like his, like those bright blue eyes that looked down at me unseeingly after he died, before I used him as a weapon against Gaston, and…

And those blue eyes meet my own, except they're kind and loving and so relieved, and Dylan is out of my mind in an instant. I sprint over to my mother and throw my arms around her neck, crying my eyes out and letting her hold me close, never wanting her to let go again.

My mother is a real victor, someone who won her Games without any stupid plans or without using any fellow tributes, someone strong and tough and seemingly invincible, someone who can protect me.

"It's going to be okay, baby. It's going to be okay," she says, for once not caring about how things look, and I love her so much for that, and I hate myself because I'm going to have to go against her for what Gaston wants me to do.

Even just the thought of stabbing her in the back has me crying even harder, and she pats my back, thinking that I'm only sad because of what happened with the Games, not knowing that there's so much more.

"I did it, Mom," I whisper. "I did it."

She pulls back and smiles at me sadly. I see that she's lost a lot of weight, and she looks like a ghost. These Games have been as hard on her as they were on me.

"Yes, Alessia. You did do it." Then she swallows and whispers, "Now straighten your skirt and smile. Crying is unbecoming."

And I laugh because she's joking, and it feels so good to be safe and sound and with someone who loves me, even if she won't pretty soon.

Still, it could be years before I have to help the rebellion. Right now, I just have to try to enjoy the life that Gaston gave me until I can fulfill that promise as best as I can.

…

I continue my training for another two years before I am promoted as the head of District 2's military. From there, I map out the Nut, in addition to copying hundreds of classified files and getting them to Lyme, who in turn transports them to various rebel leaders.

Three years after I win, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark are thrown into the arena and create chaos when Katniss holds out a handful of berries that change everything.

From that point onward, the rebellion grows to the point of being uncontrollable. Then, when the conditions of the third Quarter Quell are set, it explodes.

Having nothing to lose, and the promise I made to Gaston still echoing through my mind, I keep my status as a rebel hidden and continue to spy from inside the Nut, sending soldiers to faulty areas, making mistakes that no actual military strategist would do, but that are small enough that Snow believes lost battles to be rebel luck.

Districts 10, 4, and 3 are aided through my interference, not to mention that Lyme has a very detailed map of the Nut to use when taking down District 2's military base is necessary.

I'm inside when the bombs finally do strike it, and even though I've told myself over and over again that I want to die fulfilling my promise to Gaston, I still rush to get out just like everyone else. I still want to live, despite everything, despite how little I deserve to.

It's actually ironic, that I want to live for the first time in years, but when I tumble out of the train to bursts of gunfire, one of those bullets slams into my chest.

I cry as I fall back onto the hard concrete surface, looking up at the cold ceiling of the train station as the realization that I'm going to die hits me harder than the bullet did.

My life flashes before my eyes. I see myself studying. Arguing with Dylan. I hear my name being called at the Reaping. A hug from my mother. High heels and a silvery dress. Fire. Swords. Blood dripping into my face.

But more than anything, I hear a rough, accented voice, I see eyes that are darker than midnight, and a long white scar running down his cheek. I smell sweat and grass, and I can feel a terrifying, haunting, but shielding warmth right beside me.

Just before I feel myself slip away for the last time, I can hear him, repeating the last real words he said to me in the arena.

"Thank you. For everything."

And even though it's confusing because he shouldn't be thanking me for anything, somehow the words seem right and perfect.

Then my last thoughts slip away, the world seems to warp above me, and everything fades to blackness.

**A/N-**

**And that's all folks. I know the ending is depressing, but I wanted to make it canonical, and since almost all of the victors died, and Alessia would have been a spy, I figured that killing her off in the Nut would probably be realistic. **

**I guess that's kind of everything. I figured there'd be more to say to end this, but that's it.**

**Thanks for reviewing, and please, please, please review this last chapter and tell me what you thought of the entire story.**

**~bballgirl32~**


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